


The Music of Spectres

by Cryptic_Stories



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Ghost Stories, Ghosts, Logan is a nerd as usual, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Past Character Death, Roman is very eccentric, Slow Burn, because ghosts, it gets angstier before it gets better, lots of suspense, warnings to be posted for each chapter, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptic_Stories/pseuds/Cryptic_Stories
Summary: Set in the small village of Canterbury, where the locals gather in their favorite coffeeshop and share stories and gossip. The most infamous and well-known story by far is Jodi Thompson's: She makes the seemingly impossible claim that a ghost inhabits the abandoned inn at the edge of the village.The eccentric newcomer in town, named Roman, has just bought said inn--and he is determined to clean the place up and make it his own, no matter the old rumors surrounding the place.I mean, they're just rumors, right?
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Prinxiety
Comments: 73
Kudos: 119





	1. New Kid in Town

The river just outside Canterbury village always gave off a cool, thick fog in the morning that obscured each and every building, road, and tree. 

Many found the dark grey mornings to be a deterrent; a warning, perhaps. But there were the occasional few who took comfort in the foggy mornings, leaning in to it like a quilt and enjoying the comforts it allowed them: drinking hot tea in the morning and the blissful silence that allowed for reflection and a new level of calmness. 

The people in Canterbury seemed to be shaped by the weather it brought. The mornings were still and silent, giving their respects to the fog like a crowd parting for a monarch to pass through. Then, as the fog climbed up to form clouds, the little village began to bustle with new activity: the store owners were the first to wake, making the way to their shops in the centre of the village and opening up for the few customers they would receive. There were only 6 shops in Canterbury: the grocer, general store, a library (only counted by the villagers as a store because the owner would occasionally sell books that hadn’t been in high demand by the villagers), a coffeeshop, post office, and a small gift shop, only open in the summer when the village would receive a couple of passerby tourists. 

Now, the real centre of activity was in the coffeeshop: the one place every villager would frequent. The owner of this shop was a kindly man named Patton Hart—the village extrovert and an excellent baker. Patton had a gift with people; he knew how to get a sorrowful man to speak again, how to advise every problem a villager could come up with. He was knowledgeable in his field—and that is why one person, Logan Fletcher, continually attracted his attention. The man was relatively new to the village and only planned on staying a short while. He was an entomologist with a passion for his research, and that was all Patton could find out about the man. Logan came to the coffeeshop often, but rarely spoke, preferring the company of his books to the people around him. 

Not that that would stop Patton Hart. 

Logan came in most mornings for coffee, reading and writing for an hour or two before he left the shop. Patton had occasionally seen him with a net in the fields surrounding the village, which is how he came to realize that Logan was an entomologist—someone who studies insects. From the village gossip he had gathered that Logan was boarding with a local researcher, Emile Picani. The options for Logan’s housing were limited due to there being no open inn, so his ability to keep his work life _completely_ private was made increasingly difficult. 

Oh! The inn. Of course, that place cannot go unmentioned, for it was practically the only constant source of gossip and stories that the villagers could tap into. You see, the inn was abandoned about twenty years prior—ran out of business because of the low tourism in the area. Fog tended to drive people away. 

So did ghost stories. 

Most ghost stories attracted people’s attention to a town. And certainly, the summertime gift shop sold a couple of ghost-related items, but this story only drove people away. The only ones that stayed were the hard-set villagers who thrived off the stories they could share from their own, _definitely-true_ encounters with it, or those villagers who didn’t believe any of the stories that were told. 

Patton had gathered from the stories that a ghost resided within the abandoned inn, one who wandered the halls and moaned as if trying to articulate the torture it felt inside. Others had suggested that the ghost was even singing. Either way, its voice sent chills through any who heard it. No, not chills—ice. Their blood felt as though it had frozen over. The temperatures in the hotel had apparently begun to shift and warp rapidly, chilling to freezing when the ghost was nearby. 

Jodi Thompson once uttered, to a huddle of villagers, that the drop in temperature happened because that’s how the ghost had died: frozen to death. 

Of course, this was unlikely, as temperatures remained pretty constant in Canterbury. But Jodi still managed to ensnare her audiences to listen to the story with baited breath. 

Few people dared to venture into the inn, placed just down the street from the village centre and tucked between the trees. The river ran just a ways out behind the inn, and those who dared to explore it commented on the exceptional views that were there—usually followed by a Close Encounter with the ghost, who had been dubbed Gryffin by the locals. They had to make up something, after all, as those who claimed to see it never seemed to stay around for a chat to find out. 

The inn was thoroughly shrouded in mystery. So when a certain stranger, a city man, strutted into the village claiming to have bought the inn, there was a sort of widespread awakening of the villagers. New and old stories came back to life, passed around with an almost desperate rush, as if they all wanted to get their word in so they would be deemed expert enough that they could judge this new arrival for his decision.

His name was Roman. No one had bothered to learn his last name as they were too distracted by the following statement, so that was the only name Patton knew when the arrival dropped in to the coffeeshop. 

That moment was the first time in years that the coffeeshop fell to a silence; when Roman entered for the first time. 

He looked like a city man, just as Mrs. Arthurs had said. Shockingly golden-brown, curly hair that somehow looked both unruly and put together at the same time. He had a proud posture, looking completely self-confident and assured about his decision. _But he couldn’t be, could he?_ The villagers thought to themselves. _He couldn’t possible be right in the head, making a decision like that. Doesn’t he know the stories?_

“Hello! Come on in!” Patton called to the new man from behind the counter, and the villagers resumed their conversations, albeit a bit quieter, diverting half their attention to hear what the newcomer had to say. 

Roman walked confidently across the room to the counter, ordering a chai tea latte and a croissant. Patton set to work on the latte and began to make conversation with the stranger. 

“So what brings you into Canterbury this time of year?” He asked. Roman smiled back at him, flashing his bright white teeth before responding. 

“Well, I’m actually here to look at some new property. I bought the inn just down the road.” His city accent was crisp and strikingly different from what Patton was used to. 

“Really?” Patton said, pretending he hadn’t just heard the same thing passed around by his fifteen or so guests. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s touched the place in years. What are you planning over there?”

“I want to renovate it, if I can. This town seems like one that’s rich with histories and storytelling. I want to be part of it. City life has been quite dull as of late, and I needed a change.” 

“Fascinating! Well, what have you seen of the village so far? I know quite a few people who could give you a tour if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’m quite alright. I enjoy exploring for myself. I do like this place, though. Knowing my obsession with lattes, I’ll probably find myself becoming a regular here.”

“Well, you’re always welcome,” Patton said with a grin, passing over the latte. He went to the display case and grabbed out one of his croissants. 

“You bought the inn, eh?” A voice piped up across the room—Jodi. 

“Yes, I did,” Roman said pleasantly. 

“Ay, I have stories I could tell about that place. Many stories.” Roman quirked a brow, and Patton urgently shook his head at Jodi. 

“Oh? Do tell,” Roman said, walking closer to her table. She pushed out a chair and let him sit down. The entire crowd at the coffeeshop had quieted down to hear her, not particularly caring about the social etiquette anymore. “I want to learn as much as I can about this place.”

Jodi grinned, and the villagers knew at once that she was going to give that man the fright of his life. She had her storytelling face ready. 

“Well, you see…I’m sure you know that the inn closed about twenty years ago.”

“Yes,” Roman said, crossing one leg over the other and sipping his latte. 

“Hey, maybe this isn’t the best idea right now. I mean, he’s just bought the place?” Patton said, his brows knitted together with concern. 

“No, it’s alright, I’d like to hear,” Roman smiled. Patton gulped. 

Jodi nodded to Patton before continuing. “Well. About five years ago, the old owner started asking around, seeing if they could get someone to check in on the place. Wouldn’t go in there themselves. So I volunteered, mostly out of curiosity. I mean, why would they be so frightened that they couldn’t do it themselves? I went the next day, about ten o’clock in the morning, ‘cuz you’re just asking for trouble if you go at nighttime.”

“You’re asking for trouble if you go in, period,” one woman muttered from across the room. Jodi shot a warning look her way before continuing. 

“Owner gave me a key to the place, so I had no trouble getting in. Some of the furniture was still in there, but luckily the owner had had the sense to take out anything that would rot. Covered the rest in dust cloths. It was pretty quiet in there. Dusty, for sure. As I went down one of the hallways, I realized it: it was almost _too_ quiet. There was something muffling the sound. You could hardly breathe in the place, for fear of disturbing something,” Jodi drank the last of her coffee before continuing. “So there I was, end of the hallway. I just finished checking the rooms on the first floor. And suddenly the temperature drops—twenty degrees at least. Now, I’d heard some rumors that the temperature would drop in certain parts of the house, but I mostly pushed them aside before. Now, though…now I saw that there was something odd about the place. I mean, I felt it before, but just then, I _really_ knew it. And then…well, then I heard the singing.”

“Singing?” Roman said, detecting a tightness in his throat. 

“Yep. Sent shivers down my spine—and not from the cold. It was haunting. And almost beautiful, but haunting. And it kept getting closer to me. When it got close, I heard it sing something mysterious. I think the words were ‘ _Remember me to one who lives there.’_ Absolutely haunting and captivating. I wanted to stay almost as much as I wanted to leave. But then I saw a flicker of white cloth, or something of the likes, but I knew there was no wind in the building. So I ran like any sensible person. I ran and barely remembered to lock the door behind me. And when I looked back…when I looked back, I saw another flicker of movement in the window of the second story. Didn’t dare inspect to see what it was, just kept running ’til I felt the sweat on my skin.”

There was a captivated silence as Jodi finished, only disturbed by the occasional creaking chair. 

“Well,” Roman said finally, “I do admire your storytelling skills, for sure. I’d love to hear another one sometime.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Roman huffed. “Not yet. I want to check it out for myself, at least.” Jodi blinked in surprise. 

“Well, you’re quite the brave soul, then,” She said, her voice sounding light. The rest of the villagers looked at each other in shock. 

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just an eccentric fool,” he laughed, and Jodi joined in. 

“Oh, I think you’ll fit in here just fine,” She said. “Welcome to Canterbury.”

“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Roman said, finishing off the last of his latte, “I should be getting to my new residence.” 

“Good luck, man.”

“Thanks. It sounds as though I’ll need it.” Logan, hiding in the corner of the coffeeshop, lifted his head and tipped it to the side for a moment before returning it to his book. Roman nodded once more, thanking Patton for the food and drink, before heading out the door. 

A trill of excitement swirled its way through his stomach as he made his way down the street. 

_This will be quite the adventure,_ Roman thought, a nervous grin breaking out on his face. _Quite the adventure indeed._


	2. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman is a Cleaning Machine. Which causes a lot of confusion in the village...especially to a certain local resident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for such a positive response on the first chapter! :D
> 
> Mild warning for suspenseful images.

The road to the inn got steadily more overgrown as Roman continued, likely from lack of use. The place was barely a five minute’s walk from the town centre, but Roman assumed most people had been too startled by Jodi’s story to make the journey across the road. 

Not Roman. 

He found a strange thrill in such stories, though it did put a little bit of nervousness into his step. If the story was real, he hoped that the ghost was not of malicious intent. If the story wasn’t real, then…on with the renovations. Maybe he’d keep the story alive, shroud himself in mystery and make it the talk of the town. Though he supposed he already was the subject of conversation, judging by the awed stares he had received in the shop. 

He kind of liked it. The ambiance of the quaint little village was quite nice, if a little superstitious. 

At last he reached the road that branched off to the inn. There was a stout mailbox standing guard at the turnoff, and Roman, on a whim, decided to check and see if anything was inside. 

Nothing but cobwebs. Oh, well! He ventured past the mailbox, over a small wooden bridge and into a clearing of the trees. 

And the inn?

The inn looked lovely. There were beautiful white eves, a gorgeous front porch, a pretty albeit faded paint job, and an altogether homey little inn. 

If it weren’t for the ghost stories, he’d be shocked this place was abandoned. 

Roman took in a deep breath of the fresh air and dug out a key from his bag. The former owner had given it to him with a look of slight apprehension, but that hadn’t particularly bothered Roman. It was an old key, heavy and metallic. When he fit it in the door’s lock, it took a couple of seconds to open from lack of use. Eventually, though, the carved wooden door creaked open for Roman and he began to explore the inside. 

Well, Jodi had been right about it being dusty in there. Twenty years of little disturbance had left the place blanketed in it. However, Roman could still admire some of the aspects of the room. The floor of the inn was marble tile, a neutral color that let the rest of the room pop will color. Rather, it did at one time. The walls were a bit faded now, but he could tell they were supposed to be a rich and welcoming red on one wall and a soft beige on the others. On Roman’s right was a small and empty reception desk, and on his left was a dust-covered sitting room. At the far wall, there was a stone fireplace. From Roman’s research, he had found out that the fireplace was hand built by the original owners, over eighty years ago. It was one of the only parts of the building that had stayed after the owner’s children had taken over and renovated the place. He grinned as he crossed the room to inspect it. 

_This must have warmed hundreds of wintering guests,_ he thought merrily, and elected to get it running as soon as possible. 

First things first, though, he had to get the film of dust out of the room. There was a window facing out into the clearing Roman had just come from, and after quite a few tries, he managed to open it, letting in the fresh air to clear out the stuffiness inside the place. He walked back outside, leaving the door open— _it’s not like anyone’s going to try to break in, if they all believe the ghost stories_ —and gathering firewood. The previous owner had given Roman their old broom to clean up the place, which Roman also grabbed from its spot on the porch before he came back in. Roman dropped some of the wood into the fire pit and started a small flame which quickly caught on the dry wood. The smoke went straight up the chimney, meaning Roman wouldn’t have to do any major chimney cleaning work. 

A good start!

The crackling of the fireplace brought in some noise which Roman hadn’t realized he needed until it was there. It was actually quite comforting. The sweeping of his broom also helped eliminate the suffocating silence. Roman quickly found out that he had to wear a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, as the puffs of dust were getting everywhere. He was happy he had opened a window so it could escape, but he had a feeling he’d be dealing with a lot of this over the next few months. 

In just an hour or so, the space already felt more homey. Roman took a break on one of the chairs (it was a wrought iron chair set, assumedly meant for the porch but put inside to save it from the weather) and wiped his brow, examining the room. As he went along he realized he’d need quite the paint job. The paint was peeling and chipped from lack of care, something he hoped he could remedy. He was proud of what he had done, though: The room was looking cleaner than it had probably been in 20 years. 

The next step was to get a bucket of water and some soap and start scrubbing. The previous owner had shut off water to the hotel and that would take a couple of weeks to reinstall, so Roman went to the village with his buckets, bought some soap, tile cleaners, wood cleaners, and sponges, and filled up the buckets with water. A couple of villagers exited the coffeeshop as Roman passed by and stared in confusion. One of them, who Roman recognized as Jodi, called out: “I thought you would’ve been gone by now!”

“No ghost sightings yet,” Roman responded, giving her a nod before making his way back. About halfway there, he decided he would need a cart if he continued to carry buckets like this. It was tedious work, and he had to remind himself that the payoff would be worth it. 

When he got back, he set down the buckets, filling one with soap and mixing it until it foamed over with suds. Then, he took a sponge and began scrubbing. 

And scrubbing. 

And scrubbing. 

His arms were basically numb by the time he stopped, and his hands were covered in a layer of grime. On the upside, though, that meant a layer less of grime on the floor—and it showed. The front room was sparkling with new energy that hadn’t been there before. Three hours of work, and he was completely satisfied. He had a roaring fire to keep him company whilst he worked and an open window to cleanse the place, keeping the room fresh. Already new ideas were forming in his head about what furniture he might use, where he would put everything, what it would be like to greet the new guests…

As he scrubbed the reception desk, he noticed that some of the wood paneling was warped. That would need replacing, he was sure. _No matter. It’s still the first day._

After five hours of work, the front room was practically sparkling. He was thankful to the previous owner for putting tile in, for he wouldn’t have been able to get as much done if it had still been wood. In the last two hours he had made trip upon trip to the general store, grabbing supplies as needed. He oiled the window in the front room so it would move on its hinges, cleaned the glass and wiped down the white wooden frame of the window to remove the layer of dust and dead insects that resided on it. With that gone, Roman decided it looked almost new. He had even bought a couple of paint cans and began repainting the wooden window frame with white paint. 

The realization crossed his mind that he would eventually have to explore the rest of the house, which might be worse than what he had here. He stood still for a moment, staring at the hallway behind the front room and the distinct line between cleanliness and dust where he had stopped working. The contrast was obvious. 

_One room at a time, Roman. Look at what you’ve already done!_

_Your friends would be proud of you._

Roman grinned a little at this. He checked his watch: It was only about 4 o’clock. He had no plans for dinner, but there obviously wasn’t anything here to eat. He doubted that the villagers ate out much, but he decided the coffeeshop was worth a bet for something to eat. If not, he could always stop by the grocer’s and grab something there. He set down his supplies after taking a moment to decide and cleaned his hands to the best of his ability. 

As he made his way out the door, a sudden chill ran up his spine. Roman’s brows furrowed when he thought he felt a cold draft coming from the hallway. He glanced back into the room, but saw nothing except the glowing embers of the fire. His lips tightened and he was sure to lock the door on his way out.

——

Roman made dinner quite simple. The coffeeshop was closed, so he went to the grocer and bought a small basket for his food. The village already seemed to be winding down, despite the early hour, but Roman soon figured out why: On his way home, wisps of cloud and fog began to form in the village and obscure any signage on the roads. He shivered in the mist but continued home. The light smell of smoke filled the clearing in front of the inn, and Roman welcomed the signs of life, grabbing some more firewood on his way inside. 

Roman’s brows knitted together again once he was inside. It smelled like…paint? _But the only paint I’ve used today was the window paint, and I put that on the countertop._

He glanced towards the countertop to check. The can was noticeably absent. 

_Hm. Where could it be…?_

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The paint can seemed to be missing until he turned around to face the window. 

That’s when he saw it. 

White paint—the paint he had used to touch up the windows—was splattered across the front wall. It was haphazard and messy, with no distinct message except for someone trying to piss Roman off. Or scare him away. 

_Someone’s trying to mess with my head. Jeez._

_Wait, but I locked the door, didn’t I?_

_And how could they have thrown the paint at that angle?_

Roman shook his head. _No, no, that’s just what they want me to think. C’mon, Roman, don’t fall for it._

_I’ll deal with this problem later. Focus on dinner now._

He started up the fire again, relaxing as he heard the sound of the cracking once more. He had brought a suitcase into town packed with the necessities until he started the place up again, and from it he took out a frying pan. He first washed vegetables with a cup of water from one of the water jugs he had filled earlier. Then, he begun the process of making a makeshift dinner with his limited seasoning and what he liked to call his ‘improvisational cooking skills.’

After a while he retired for the night, electing to sleep in the front room until he had cleaned out the rest of the space. He pulled out a compacted sleeping bag from his suitcase and laid it out near the fireplace. The warmth was a nice comfort, as it had been for the whole day before. He fell asleep only minutes after laying down, exhausted from the day of work he had done. 

——

It was late at night when some mystery sound finally woke Roman from his sleep. He blinked awake, not fully aware of where he was until he took a second to assess his surroundings. 

The inn was dark; the fire had been reduced to a glowing pile of coals. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the broom had fallen from its place on the wall. Roman decided that that was the source of the noise. He shivered, surprised at how cold it had gotten despite the fact that he was laying next to the fireplace. Under a sleeping bag. 

The cold, strangely enough, seemed to be increasing—washing over him like icy waves of water on a beach. The fireplace dimmed. Roman’s muscles stiffened up from the cold. 

Suddenly, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He tried to remain as still as possible so as to hide, but it was difficult with his chattering teeth. He managed to hold on, though, as the thing moved closer. It flickered in and out of visibility; its form so translucent that it was difficult to see at all. However, when the form was visible, it was pale white. Roman had no time to comprehend his rushing thoughts or deductions, instead just staring, trying to see as much of…whatever it was as possible. 

It was quite difficult—but as the cold thing drifted closer, Roman realized that the apparition was taking the form of a human.

A ghost. 

_No, no, your eyes are fooling you, Roman._

He blinked once, carefully. The apparition did not disappear. 

It seemed they had not yet been alerted to Roman’s presence, or if they had, they did not act upon it. They appeared to be exploring the room, drifting from wall to wall and examining the various changes that had been made. Roman’s eyes ached for a clearer picture of the ghost’s figure, but moving would alert the strange apparition before he had done so. From what he could see, the ghost wore a dark yet luminescent grey dress, with a long trailing skirt that covered their ankles. The hands up to the wrists were visible beneath the cloth of the ghost’s long sleeves, and they were a pale white like petals of a lily. The ghost seemed so delicate that it might drift away at the faintest gust of wind. 

At once he was frightened and transfixed by this figure that was defying all logic. 

Suddenly the ghost trembled as if a chill had run through their body. They turned their head towards the fireplace and then slowly, slowly, towards Roman. The room seemed to become colder and colder, practically freezing over as the ghost came near. 

Roman’s heart was racing. As the ghost approached, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping they wouldn’t notice. The cold drafts were close enough now that Roman was sure the ghost was hovering right above him. 

He began to hear something, faint at first, but he was sure it was there: a strange humming. It gradually took the form of some sad, slow melody that Roman didn’t recognize, yet it felt wholly of heartbreak and…loneliness. How was it that a faint tune could be so powerful? 

The song seemed to float gently around his face, like silk brushing against his cheek. It was so calming that his fear and the sadness of the song seemed to melt away, and he leaned into the silken melody on his cheek. 

Which suddenly felt a lot more solid. 

Roman’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the ghost retract its hand in shock, eyes wide, and disappear into thin air. 

He sat up quickly, looking around for any sign of the apparition as the warmth returned to the room. Within seconds, Roman was doubting if it had all been a dream. Nothing was out of place, heat from the fireplace was keeping him warm, and there was no other sign of life. 

Yet he still lifted a hand to his face, touching the spot where he had felt something, some sign of a visitor. A shadow of curiosity, a sign of…life? Could he even call it that?

Roman was intoxicated by the mystery. He had come here, to this village, for an adventure away from the city. 

And now it appeared he had one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a kudos and maybe a comment! Haha just kidding...unless?
> 
> :D


	3. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman makes an unexpected discovery. Well...discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for the positive feedback you have given me on the first two chapters! :D 
> 
> WARNINGS: Some cursing throughout.

It had been a week since Roman sighted the ghost—enough time to wonder if he had even seen them in the first place. The memories were so short; so delicate to begin with…they could have easily been forged by a trick of the light or a wandering imagination. But something tugged at the edge of his mind making it seemingly impossible to discount the possibility that they were real. 

In the past seven days, Roman had been able to clean two out of the eight rooms, and he had run into his first major roadblock: The water and electricity contractors were refusing to come out to the inn and service it. To Roman it seemed they were letting their superstitions get the best of them, but it was increasingly frustrating as more local groups turned away from helping him. That meant he would have to wait even longer before he could really get the place running. To add to it all, the moving truck hadn’t arrived with any of Roman’s boxes yet (not that there was much to move, but it did include a vacuum which would be very handy considering the state of the carpeted hallways and rooms). 

Roman hadn’t yet ventured down to the ends of the hallways, nor had he been upstairs. He had had an agent come by to assess the structural integrity of the place, and though she had assured Roman that the upstairs were fine and everything was safe, she also refused to go up the stairs herself. Or to walk too far down the hallway. By the time she left, she was shaking and made a quick exit, promising to send an email with the final assessment. 

Roman was confused by this—why was it that everyone else in the village was so terrified of some ghost story? He’d had to explain over and over that no, he hadn’t _really_ seen the ghost, and no, it hadn’t been destroying everything and terrorizing him. And also, _no, I’m not possessed,_ and _no, I’m not schizophrenic_. He wasn’t really sure what the reasoning behind the last one was, but he decided it would be better not to dwell on it too much. 

There probably wasn’t even a ghost. It _had_ been a week, and the memory can be changed or manipulated in that time. It was probably just one of the dust cloths flickering around from a cold draft. 

_Speaking of drafts…_ Roman thought, shivering to himself. There had to be some kind of leak in the house that was letting in cold air. He was continually getting random chilly breezes that were extremely annoying when your only source of heat is a fireplace in the main room: Yet another reason why he hadn’t ventured farther than the two closest rooms on either side of the hallway. 

He tried to play that off as his main reason, but that wasn’t really true. 

The inn’s layout was tidy and efficient. The foyer was an open space, two stories tall, allowing visitors to see part of the upstairs hallway. There was a polished wooden handrail blocking the edge of the upstairs hallway that was open to the foyer below. Beyond that, where the hallway split off into the upstairs rooms, Roman hadn’t seen anything. The spiraled staircase stood open and waiting for Roman to venture up, but he refused thus far, promising to clean all the downstairs rooms first. 

There was something dark and foreboding about that staircase. Whenever he even came near it…he felt like there was something behind him, watching. And if he didn’t keep checking over his shoulder, it might just make a move. 

This was a major problem, seeing as the staircase was placed directly in the center of the hallway, just three steps straight forward from the edge of the foyer. In his paranoia, as Roman called it, he had basically edged across the corner of the wall to enter the hallway to the downstairs rooms rather than walk near the staircase. 

He refused to acknowledge that, however. And if anyone asked, it was just a normal staircase. 

The inn had stayed the same. It was a nice place, even with the fading paint and carpet badly in need of washing. But every day, it felt like the sounds around him grew more faded, muffled. Like the walls were encroaching on him. The slightest disturbance in the sound that he caused had begun to send shivers down his spine, as though he was worried he had disturbed a resident. 

As though he worried he had woken something up. Something that was meant to stay sleeping. He could brush it off for as long as he liked, but that was the fact of the matter. And it might explain why he saw his trips to the village as a relief. 

Patton and Roman had become good companions over the last couple of days, and Roman found himself visiting the coffeeshop frequently whilst he was in the village. The rest of the locals were warming up to him as well, albeit slowly. Roman realized, though, that the best way to be welcomed was to become a regular. So, frequenting the coffeeshop it was. 

“Hey, Roman!” Patton called as Roman entered the coffeeshop early that morning, a cloud of cold morning air following in his wake. “It’s foggy out there today, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is. Could almost cut it with a knife,” He replied. “I like it, though. Builds to the air of mystery.”

“Speaking of mystery…” Patton said, leaning over the counter. “Any sightings?”

Roman glanced around the coffeeshop. It was early yet, and few of the villagers were there save one very enthusiastic entomologist, studying in his usual corner. 

“None so far. I’m beginning to believe that maybe there wasn’t one to begin with. The inn’s been quiet.”

“Well, that’s good, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure. Only problem is, it gets lonely. Y’know, everyone’s so afraid of visiting that it’s usually just me cleaning the place up.”

“Oh, makes sense. I would offer to visit, except I have this place to run.”

“No worries. I just hope I can get a contractor out there at some point. Might have to drag one in,” Roman joked. “But the cleaning is going nicely, and other than the contractors, it’s running fairly smoothly.” He neglected to mention that he had only cleaned up two of the rooms thus far. 

“That’s nice to hear. Chai latte for you?”

“Yes, please.”

The rest of the conversation was fairly slow, Patton updating Roman on the latest village drama as more and more people trickled in to the shop. Before long, Roman had finished his drink and made to leave. However, on his way out, he was stopped by a certain entomologist. 

“Wait,” The man called, closing his book and quickening his step to catch up with Roman as he walked out the door. 

“It’s Logan, right? The entomologist?”

“Yes,” he said, then furrowed his brows. “How does everyone know that?”

“Word gets around quickly while you’re studying. What _are_ you studying, by the way?”

“The evolutionary adaptations of a certain species of grasshopper that lives just on the outskirts of this village—and exclusively here, I might add. They were separated as a species from their most recent cousin on the other side of the mountain there, and it led them to develop new adaptations on their own. As soon as I get enough documentation on the pigmentation changes that this grasshopper has experienced, I will be able to prove a theory I’ve been working on.”

“Sounds…very specific,” Roman said, a brow raised. “Does this research have to do with why you’re still walking with me even though we’re about to reach the ‘haunted inn’?”

Logan pushed up his glasses. “I don’t fear ghosts. Frankly I don’t believe they exist.”

“Oh, finally. At least there’s one of you,” Roman grinned. 

“It is getting more and more difficult to listen to those villagers chatter about the existence of ghosts and what crazy things they think are going on in that inn. No, I was just wondering if you would allow me to search any grassland space on your property for the grasshoppers I am studying.”

“Sure thing,” Roman said as they crossed over the little bridge into the clearing where the inn stood. “Only grassland I have is this clearing out front. There’s some past the river behind the property, but that’s a long ways off and it’s not on my land. Plus, the forest gets a little dense back there from what I’ve heard. And you’re welcome inside if you’d like. Just call me and let me know you’re there so you don’t give me a scare.”

“Thank you,” Logan said, digging into his pocket for something. Roman watched as he pulled out a small metal box. He turned it around in his hand once, then pressed a small button on the side. Instantly the box snapped open and formed into a metal rod, with a hoop and netting on the end. Roman blinked with surprise. 

“That’s quite the net there,” Roman said. 

Logan nodded. “It’s very useful. I built it myself.”

Roman whistled. “Well, good luck with your research, then,” He said, giving a quick wave before he headed inside. 

_What a funny man,_ Roman thought. _This village really has its characters._

Soon after Roman had found the rhythm of his work, setting in to the cleaning ahead of him. Today was the day he went all the way to the end of the hall. He promised himself he would. He stared down the left wing of the hallway. There were only two doors, and one of them he had already visited. _Only one left. That’s all it is. Just another door to open. C’mon, Roman_. 

The staircase behind him sent another shiver down his spine, and that was the final motivation he needed to push him to the end of the hall. The dark, shadowy end of the hall. 

With no lighting. 

And impenetrable silence. 

A floorboard creaked beneath his feet. He looked down and noticed that the carpet was slightly discolored. _You’re going to need some powerful carpet cleaner for that._

Before he was ready, Roman had reached the door. He stared at the old brass handle on the carved wooden door for a moment, examining the accumulation of dust before he extended his hand, twisting it carefully. 

The door handle wouldn’t budge, which confused Roman greatly as the former owner had claimed all the doors inside the building were left unlocked. He tried again with the same result. 

He glanced down at the crack beneath the door, seeing if anything had jammed it shut. Nothing there. 

Suddenly the metal beneath his hand felt hot—no, not hot, burning. Searing. Roman tried to pull his hand away but it wouldn’t move. He cried out in shock and in pain, struggling to pull his hand away from the door. Why couldn’t he move? What was going on? 

He didn’t know when he started screaming. 

He did know that it ended with a cool breeze over his palm. When his hand was finally released, he stumbled backward, his head striking the wall behind him. 

——

When he came to, the light streaming in from his window suggested it was midday. 

Also, he was in the foyer. 

_How did I get here…?_

His hand was stinging to the touch when he examined it. He realized soon that he would have to get cream and bandages for it, judging by the intensity of the burns. _That’s going to set back my progress for sure._ He tapped it once and winced. 

“Don’t touch it, you idiot,” Someone said from behind him. Roman whipped around, but no one was there. Their voice was...strangely melodious, yet wholly haunting, with a sort of echo that he couldn’t quite describe.

“Where—who are you?” Roman stuttered. 

“You won’t be able to see me. Though you are looking in the right…general area.” Roman squinted towards the red wall before him. He could’ve sworn he saw the silvery outline of a dress before him, but he wasn’t sure. 

“Alright. So hopefully this doesn’t mean I’m experiencing a concussion-induced hallucination…” Roman muttered to himself. 

“I mean, you could be,” The ghost said sarcastically. 

“How reassuring. Where are you?” Roman could’ve sworn he heard the ghost sigh impatiently. 

“I can’t just _appear_ in full form in this sunlight. It…hurts. I probably shouldn’t even be out here anyways.” 

“Well, where can I go to see you?”

“Somewhere dark.”

“Okay,” Roman said, stumbling to his feet. He waited a second to fully regain his balance, before striding forward—this time to the right side of the hallway. He didn’t dare to look at the left side again. He stepped into the room he had cleaned through, moving to the window to close and shutter it. 

When he turned around, the ghost was there. A cold draft built up in the room despite the midday heat that had been there moments ago. 

Roman didn’t notice. He was more preoccupied with the figure before him. 

He tried to take in every detail: the long, tattered grey-purple skirt and large trailing sleeves of the dress. The delicate, narrow figure and defined collarbone. The hair sweeping over the forehead that looked as fluid and silken as the dress itself. 

_They’re…beautiful._

Roman hadn’t realized he’d been staring until they grimaced. 

“What? You’ve never seen a guy in a dress before?” The ghost said, sounding irritated.

_So he’s a man…_ “I—no, I, uh…I mean, I can’t say it’s a common occurrence,” Roman breathed, unable to take his eyes off the figure before him. His face was flushed a shade of pink, though he reassured himself that it was from the cold. Definitely. “S-sorry. I guess I’m just a bit dazed.” 

The ghost huffed. “Sure. Now just what the hell did you think you were doing, trying to open that door?” 

“I—I don’t know. I was just trying to clean the room like all the others. I wasn’t expecting it to come back and burn me!”

“Did you just straight up ignore the vibes you were getting? There’s literally so many warning signs for why you _shouldn’t go in there_ ,” the ghost said, floating closer with each word. Roman, in whatever daze he seemed to be in, could only stare back. “Look, I may have been able to get you away from there this time, but I’m not going to be able to stop him every time you go falling straight into a trap.”

Roman couldn’t bring himself to respond, his words drying up in his throat when he saw the ghost’s eyes. They were captivatingly intense, dark brown in color. They were somehow so vibrant, set off by the black eyeshadow under his eyes. 

_Holy shit I’m in love_. 

“Hello? Did you even hear what I just said?” The ghost asked irritably. Roman blinked back to reality and began to stutter. 

“I—I, uh… yes?” The ghost sighed. 

“I _said,_ I can’t save you every time you fall into one of his traps. You have to be more careful.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Don’t you feel the warning signs? Like the, ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t go into this ominous room because it’s strangely dark at this end of the hall even though it’s midday and light should be shining through the windows’ signs?”

“Wait, what?”

“Go look for yourself. You’ll see it,” The ghost said, folding his arms. Roman walked towards the door, hesitating before he touched the handle with his non-burned hand. He peered out into the hallway, first to the left and then the right. He whirled around, shutting the door behind him. 

“Holy shit, you’re right. It’s way darker on the left side…how did I not notice that?”

“Probably because you’re a dumbass.”

Roman raised a brow. “That was an unwarranted insult.”

“That,” the ghost pointed his thumb to the left, “was also an unwarranted rescue. Plus, you’re the one who _chose_ to buy the inn. This place is _highly_ dangerous. Why would you want to be here?”

“I—” Roman looked down at his feet. “I needed a change of scenery.”

“Well, good for you. Now you’ve got one. Look—I really should not be here. Just…try not to get yourself killed, okay? And pay attention to the warning signs. They’re there,” He said firmly, before floating towards the wall. 

“Wait!” The ghost turned around expectantly. 

“What’s your name?” Roman breathed. 

The ghost hesitated. “You—call me Virgil. But…don’t say it loudly anywhere. Please.”

“Virgil,” Roman said, letting the name roll over his tongue. “I’m Roman.” 

The ghost nodded, some unreadable expression washing over his face. “Nice to meet you. Roman,” he said finally, before drifting away through the wall. 

Roman stood there for a moment, taking in the last wisps of memory that he could. He sighed dreamily. _His name is Virgil._

_He’s real._

Suddenly he snapped out of his daze. 

_Oh no. I’m in love with a ghost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for kudos and comments!!


	4. Heathens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman makes some new friends and starts digging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for the support you've given me thus far! :)
> 
> No major warnings.

Roman leaned against the wall of the inn, a notebook sitting open-faced in his lap. The edge of his palm was covered in graphite from nearly an hour of concentrated sketching. His eyes were burning, and it was late—way later than he should’ve been up, but he hadn’t exactly kept track of time. 

A sigh escaped his lips as he looked back at the drawing. It wasn’t nearly good enough for what he had wanted. There was something off about it, he was sure, but squinting at it in the darkness wasn’t going to help. He had to sleep. 

Before he nestled into his sleeping bag by the fire, he set the sketch of Virgil by his backpack. 

_To be continued, I guess._

_——_

The fog hung low on the village the following morning—so thick that one might lose their way on the trip to an old friend’s place. It seemed only Canterbury, the village in the valley, was having this problem: all the fog moved in and nestled into the cavity of the green hills around it. As a result, the shops stayed closed another hour and work was delayed in the neighboring villages and towns, as part of the labor force was boxed in. 

Roman woke up early to fog hugging the windows of the old inn. He shivered, making a mental note to put insulation and heating on the list of priorities for the place. 

If only he could get someone out there to look at the place and give him an estimate. 

He realized he’d have to contract someone so far away, they would have no idea of the ghost story and they would be removed from all superstition. It was starting to become a major problem, especially if he wanted this place to become a working inn again. 

For the time being, Roman was boxed in at home—along with a couple of mysterious, sometimes-threatening ghosts. 

_Lovely_.

At least, he had discovered, the less-than-friendly ghosts had stayed to themselves. But he had no idea _why._ And that might become a problem if he didn’t figure it out soon. 

But at least the morning fog gave him a chance to research—and research he did. He had to figure out what was going on in this house. How it was possible, and…

…And what had happened to them?

——

_1968_

He walked across the narrow dirt road of Canterbury village, eyes staring straight past the shops along the side of the road. He entered the square and the midday light shone down on his purple-tipped hair. His jaw was set—defiant. Refusing to be ignored yet unwilling to acknowledge anyone. He didn’t care about the looks these villagers were giving him. He could wear whatever he wanted to, and no one was going to stop him. 

No one.

——

_Present Day_

_Knock knock_. 

Roman furrowed his brows, glancing out the window. Fog still blanketed the space outside, and he couldn’t even see to the porch. _How could someone even get here?_

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it could be one of the malicious ghosts, but he shook it off. 

_No. Those guys are stuck in here with me._ He closed the top of his laptop and stepped towards the door, listening for a second just to be safe. Soon, his curiosity got the best of him and he opened the door to a perplexed entomologist. 

“Uh…hello?” Roman said, an eyebrow raised. 

“Hello,” Logan said. He turned halfway on the porch, paused, and turned back, confused. “This is not where I was meant to be, is it?”

“I…don’t believe so, no?” 

“No, you wouldn’t know that, would you?” Logan said, his brows furrowed. “Do you…do you mind if I come in?”

Roman blinked. “I mean, why not? Come on in.” 

Logan stepped in, instantly going about examining the place. 

“So, uh…how did you get here?” Roman asked. 

“Well. I was attempting to get to the coffee shop. I thought I had been walking for too long…”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t bump into anything on the way here.”

“Oh, I did. Several things. What is this?” Logan said, peering over the notebook that laid next to Roman’s laptop. Roman quickly moved to hide it, but Logan had read through it before he could get there. “You’re taking notes on ghosts?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Long story. I didn’t want to believe they existed, but now…now I don’t really have a choice.” Logan looked up at Roman with his piercing blue eyes, a new wave of curiosity evident on his face. 

“Something changed. You saw something.” Logan cocked his head. “No…some _one_. You saw the ghost they talk about in the village.”

“Yeah. But more than that. Take a look at my notes, I think I wrote it down there.”

“Supposedly everyone knows about the one ghost. The one that they can see. But he showed me that there’s more than one. You can’t really see them, except out of the corners of your eyes. And you have to be paying attention. But they’re there. Haven’t been documented for years, but I have managed to dig up some possible preliminary information. Wait, where are you going?”

Logan didn’t respond. He was slowly wandering towards the edge of the foyer, staring at…

_Shit._

“Wait, Logan, don’t touch that!” Roman yelled frantically, charging forward to pull Logan back just before he reached out to the stairwell. Logan stumbled on his heels, blinking rapidly as he seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had been in. “Don’t you feel it?”

“I feel—I see something that I am not accustomed to seeing,” Logan said slowly. “It seems there is an unusual complex of shadows surrounding this staircase.” He swiveled his head to both sides to confirm his theory. “And it’s only here…and outside that room.” He pointed towards the room at the end of the left wing of the inn.”

“Right. I think those are the two other ghosts. Or something like that. I’m still trying to work out the details.” 

Roman watched as Logan suddenly pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket. 

“It is an intriguing concept. Would you permit me to look around and gather data?” 

“Uh, sure. So…you believe me? About the ghosts?”

“I do not believe in ghosts. But this…this I can _see._ It is tangible, and I do not understand it, and therefore it is worth investigating. With your permission, of course.”

“Go for it. Just remember not to touch the shadowy areas.”

——

The next hour was spent with Logan investigating and taking notes on the state of the house, whilst Roman continued to research for any information on the ghosts. Unfortunately, knowing only the first name of one of them wasn’t particularly helpful. He also didn’t know _when_ the now-ghosts had died. If they were ghosts in the sense that popular culture had adapted, in that they had been alive in the first place. Anything could be true, especially since ghosts were rare to come across and it seemed like a rude thing to ask, anyways. 

Considering the ghost— _Virgil_ , he reminded himself—called him an idiot upon first meeting him and got self-conscious about his dress, he probably wouldn’t take kindly to being asked about his death. 

_Would he be offended by the fact that I’m letting someone else investigate the inn?_

_Well, technically it isn’t his. He just lives here. One of four tenants. So it’s not really up to him, is it?_

_Where does he even live, anyway? He seems really good at hiding, considering how small the inn is. Must be on the second floor, then. Which I conveniently can’t access due to one of my_ tenants _is blocking the way._

_Convenient._

Roman hadn’t realized his mind had been wandering until Logan finally made his presence clear again by comparing notes with him. 

“This place is quite intriguing. I remember Jodi speaking of sudden temperature changes throughout the building, but I didn’t quite believe her until I took a look for myself. There is a quite drastic rise in temperature towards the left end of the building, where the suspected entity seems to reside,” Logan said, tipping up his glasses. 

“Yeah, there is. That corner is quite terrifying. I—I nearly died there just the other day, I think.”

“How so?”

“Well, I tried putting my hand on the door handle so I could clean the room, but the metal heated up under my skin, and my hand was sort of _fused_ to the door handle for a moment. I couldn’t take it off,” Roman said, turning over his hand to reveal the burn scars. Logan furrowed his brows. 

“How exactly did you get away if you could not remove your hand?”

“The ghost. The one they talk about in the village. He saved me, I think. All I remember was feeling a cool breeze on my hand and waking up in the lobby. And, uh…I saw him. Talked to him briefly.” Roman turned around, reaching for the notebook he left on the table with his laptop. 

“This would have been helpful to know before I began my investigation. Is this ghost ‘evil’ as well?” Logan said. 

“No. No, I don’t believe so. He saved my life.”

“And how do we know they were a he?”

“He told me,” Roman said, flipping to the page of his drawing and handing it over to Logan. The latter man studied it for a minute, taking in every detail possible. 

“This is what he looked like?”

“Yes. The dress and all. Tattered at the ends, grey-ish hue, everything.”

Logan looked up from the drawing, taking a glance out the window. The fog had cleared, and he contemplated this for a moment before turning back to Roman. 

“Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere. To the coffeeshop?” Logan said, shooting a glance towards the stairwell. Roman understood the message, giving a quick nod and gathering up his laptop and notebook. 

If Logan was worried about mysterious entities listening in on their conversation, then this was real. 

This was very, very real. 

——

_1969_

They gave him scornful looks. 

He was sick of the worrying, sick of being called the problematic or abnormal kid by peers and adults…all the villagers had bombarded him with their disapproval his entire life. He always seemed to mess it up, no matter how hard he tried. 

But now, he was 24 years old and he was done trying. If the villagers wouldn’t dismiss it as a phase, then they’d watch him make his big stand; they’d watch him prove them all wrong. 

Wearing a dress didn’t make him any less of a man. Neither did loving men. And if the villagers refused to see that on their own, then he’d spell it out loud and clear for them. 

He clenched his fist and tightened his jaw, noticing the villagers whispering to each other as he passed by. 

First, though, he needed a place to stay. A place to run to when—if—everything went wrong. 

The inn seemed a suitable choice. 

——

_Present Day_

The bell on the coffeeshop door dinged as Logan and Roman entered. By this time, the morning traffic had commenced, and quite a few of the tables had been taken. Luckily for the duo, Logan’s table in the back corner had remained unoccupied, and Roman staked out their table whilst Logan ordered drinks. When he sat back down, they returned to the subject at hand. 

“So this _ghost_ you showed me a picture of. He is not malicious as the other two?”

“Yeah. A ball of sarcasm and salt but not evil, per say.”

“You had time to assess his personality?”

“Well, I mean, he called me an idiot then started to lecture me on why I need to pay more attention to the warning signs of those other spirits, so yeah.”

“Fascinating. Oddly enough, I wasn’t exactly expecting them to have such strong personalities,” Logan said, scribbling down an extra note in his notebook. 

“Hey, fellas! Glad to see you two are getting to know each other!” Patton exclaimed, coming out from behind the counter to deliver drinks to the two. “Whatcha working on?”

Logan cleared his throat. “We’re investigating Roman’s inn.”

“Oh? Find the ghost?”

“Uh, well,” Roman cut in, “We’re trying to see if there’s any merit to the stories that were being told. About the ghosts.”

“Ghosts, plural?” Patton raised a brow, intrigued. “You saw something, didn’t you?” He leaned on the table, eager to listen in to the conversation. Roman noticed Logan’s expression shift subtly, almost imperceptibly, and he noted to look into that for further research in the future.

“Okay, you can’t tell anybody about this. But yes, we did find ghosts. Logan helped me. It all started this morning…

——

_1999_

_I just want to be free._

_God, why can’t I ever be free?_

_If they don’t let me out soon I swear I’ll find a way myself._

_It’s been 30 years. That’s far too long to be trapped._

_I have to get out of here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to leave a comment and/or kudos! <3 Thanks for reading!


	5. Aura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan, Patton, and Roman start brainstorming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I know it's been a while, but I've been working on finalizing this chapter for a long time. Thanks for your patience!

In the following two weeks, Roman, Patton, and Logan put their heads together, working to tackle the little ghost infestation. They decided on biweekly meetings at the coffeeshop (which they soon moved into the back room to avoid grabbing the attention of nosy villagers). Roman would update them on any happenstances at the inn whilst Logan jotted notes, and the three of them theorized on the stories behind the inn and its residents. Logan had collected some notes from the the local archives with a guest record book from the inn before its closure, along with some details on the building itself and any autopsy or death records he could find.

“Well, you’d assume three ghosts, three deaths right?” Patton asked, leaning on one of the sacks of coffee beans.

“I mean, I’d think so. If there _are_ three ghosts. All I know for sure is that there is one ghost that exists in the form that we’d normally think of ghosts, and two…mysterious entities. They seem to be attached to physical locations, whereas Virgil can move around the building.”

“And who is to say that the mysterious entities are not simply one… _supernatural_ creature which can extend itself from one place to another?” Logan volunteered. “Though I might consider that option rather unlikely. There is more of a chance of two separate beings. My limited research of the topic has led me to believe that these beings have inherit weaknesses since they do not possess the full strength and free will that you or I would possess over our own beings. They are…limited. Hence Virgil’s inability to appear in broad daylight or leave the house. And the other’s inability to move from their present location. And, subsequently, why a single entity could not spread themselves to cover two places of the house simultaneously.”

“Hm,” Patton furrowed his brows. “So what about a death certificate for Virgil? Since we know his name, at least.”

“I did find something—even with him having only provided a first name, it is uncommon enough that I was able to dig up a partial record.”

“Partial?” Roman asked, leaning back on his makeshift chair of coffee bean containers. “How can you only have a partial death certificate?”

“Well, it appears to have been…burned, somehow,” Logan pushed up his glasses, digging into the folder he had dedicated for this research. “Here. I was able to photocopy it before I left. Not much to see, though.”

Logan pulled a sheet of paper out of the folder and handed it to Roman. The image was burnt in a diagonal, with only the upper left corner of the sheet remaining—just enough to cut off his last name and medical history before death. It did, however, leave an address where he had lived. And informed Roman that he was unmarried before his death. Not that that was important.

“28 years old. We have a month of death, but it’s cut off before the day or year,” Roman muttered.

“Wouldn’t they have kept other copies, or records in case of something having happened to it? Even, like…updating it online?” Patton asked, lifting one of the containers of coffee beans to take out to the front.

“Apparently not. I checked other records, but Virgil has virtually disappeared from this history. No one seems to know what happened to him. After this, it’s only ghost stories.”

“Logan, Virgil’s former address of residence is on here. Should we go and scope it out?” He said, pointing it out to Logan on the paper.

“Perhaps. Obviously we’d have to get permission, but it is unlikely the former owners would still be living there themselves. A better bet would be to…” Logan trailed off.

“What?”

“Well, I would suggest talking to Virgil, but…you haven’t seen him in two weeks,” Logan said, tucking a pencil behind his ear.

Roman sighed. “I mean, yeah. It feels like he’s avoiding me, probably because he just told me his name and it sounded like a big deal, but…he’s around. I can feel it. I mean, _literally_ , the room drops at least ten degrees whenever he’s nearby.”

“What if he’s recovering, Ro?” Patton said, coming back with the now empty container. “He saved you from the entity downstairs—that could’ve sapped his strength. Maybe he can’t appear yet.”

“That’s true,” Logan said. “We have no idea how much that took out of Virgil.”

Roman furrowed his brows.“I wonder how I could go looking for him, if I were to ask him some questions.”

“Well, where does he spend most of his time?” Patton asked.

“I can’t say for sure, but I think it’s probably upstairs. Which I conveniently cannot get to,” Roman added. “This is going to be difficult.”

“Maybe you can do something to grab his attention?”

“Like grab the doorknob again and see what happens?”

“ _NO_ ,” Logan and Patton said in unison. Logan continued, “We don’t want to sap his strength again, that would be detrimental and it may not make him very willing to help you. Perhaps the best idea is just to wait until he comes to you.”

Roman bit his lip, considering. “Alright. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Let me know if there are updates?” Patton asked, standing up as Roman did.

“Always, Pat,” he gave Patton a reassuring pat on the shoulder and nodded goodbye to Logan, making his way out of the shop.

As he made his way back to the inn, a million questions raced through his head. There was still so little that they actually _knew_ about Virgil; yet Roman knew there was something hauntingly tragic about his past. He tried to reconstruct the little of what they know, but his attempts were futile. There were just too many gaps.

Roman noted as he crossed over the little bridge to his property that some of the boards—probably the whole thing, in reality—needed to be replaced. There was a lot more work to do, despite the fact that he had basically finished with the first floor. Well, he had finished the cleaning. There were still the structural evaluations, water and electricity contracts, furniture replacement…

But there wasn’t anything he could do about those at the moment, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath to try to expel that stress from his mind. He entered the clearing to his inn, glancing at the new white bedsheets he had washed and hung out to dry on long wires. They floated back and forth in the gentle breezes, billowing out as if someone was dancing among them.

When he reached out for the door, he noticed the handle was cold to the touch. He thought of Virgil and opened it cautiously, trying not to frighten the apparition.

Instead he found himself ensnared.

Virgil hovered just above the second floor awning, his figure glowing brighter than Roman had seen before. He floated across the top floor, unaware of Roman’s presence. What captivated Roman, however, was the singing.

His lips parted and a beautiful, sad melody drifted through, reminiscent of the sound of wind through pine trees. His voice echoed through the open chamber, filling the whole room with a clear and unmistakeable presence.

“ _Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme…”_

Roman shivered, feeling cold travel up his spine. He realized suddenly that Virgil’s voice must have been one of the most beautiful during his lifetime—even now, Roman felt like he was being possessed by it all.

_“Remember me to one who lives there_

_He once was a true love of mine.”_

_Scarborough Fair—I know the lyrics to this_ , he thought briefly. As Virgil hit the last note, Roman opened his mouth almost subconsciously to sing

“ _Tell her to find me an acre of land,”_ he sung. Virgil whirled around in surprise, which gradually melted to curiosity. Roman had expected him to get scared, to run away, but he instead whispered the next lyric.

“ _A sprinkling of leaves_ …”

“ _Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.”_

_“…washes the grave with silvery tears…”_ Virgil began to float down towards Roman, his expression incredulous.

_“Between the salt water and the sea strands,”_

_“…And polishes a gun…”_

_“Then she’ll be a true love of mine,_ ” Roman finished. His voice went soft as Virgil came nearer, until he floated mere inches away from the man.

“I haven’t heard a real person sing in fifty-two years,” Virgil whispered, transfixed. Roman held his breath, as if exhaling would cause him to disappear. _Fifty-two years??_ “It sounds so different than I remember.”

“Good different?” Roman said softly, his breath crystallizing in front of him. He was pretty sure his heart had just stopped beating. Virgil was right in front of him, and he could finally see the minute details of his face; committing it to memory so he could report it later. Or trying to. He felt like he could pass out from being so overwhelmed.

“You’re a amazing singer,” Virgil smiled wistfully. Roman felt his cheeks burning in spite of the chill around him. _So Virgil does have a nice side…_

“Can I…can I ask you something?” Roman said, suddenly remembering his discussion with Patton and Logan. Virgil’s wistful expression dissipated and he nodded, as Roman tried to gather the courage to ask his question.

_Asking how he died is too invasive…I don’t want to risk scaring him off again._ He tried to stop himself from shivering. _Wait, that’s it!_

“Okay, this is going to sound a little weird, but did you know you… _radiate_ cold? Like, when you move into a certain area it gets colder?”

Virgil scrunched his brows. “What? I—no, I guess?”

Roman could tell that he had captured Virgil’s curiosity, so he continued. “I was just wondering if you knew why it was happening.”

“Why? Does it bother you?” Virgil said, a faint edge creeping into his voice.

“No, no! I just thought it was fascinating, is all.”

“So you want to _study_ me?” He said with a raise of his brow. _You’re losing him, Roman._

“No, wait, please don’t leave,” Roman said, reaching out compulsively to grab Virgil’s hand.

Later, he supposed he should have realized that Virgil was a ghost before he reached out. Ghosts are not solid figures like humans, so everything should go through them. That’s what everything he’d ever heard or seen about ghosts had said.

That wasn’t what happened, though.

Latching on to Virgil’s hand was a strange feeling, to say the least. Somehow Roman could tell that he wasn’t _supposed_ to be able to feel Virgil’s hand in his own. Yet, there it was, frigid and oddly papery. Virgil’s shoulders tensed and he turned around slowly, his eyes wide.

“How are you doing that?” he said quietly.

“I—I don’t know, I reached out and…I mean, it just sorta happened?”  
  


“No, _that,_ ” Virgil said, pointing at his wrist. Roman blinked twice before he saw it.

Virgil’s formerly translucent hand was…solidifying?

They watched in awe as color crept into Virgil’s hand. And…warmth. Roman was sure of it.

“How…” Virgil whispered. “I haven’t felt anything…”

“Ow…” Roman said suddenly, furrowing his brows. “I—I can’t feel my hand. Virgil, I can’t feel my hand.”

Virgil retracted his hand quickly, examining the pale color before it slowly began to recede, leaving his hand translucent once more. Roman, meanwhile, flexed his fingers again. The pain felt like a hundred wasps stinging him in one spot, but it faded quickly, until the sensation of pins and needles too was gone.

“Okay, what _was_ that?” Virgil said, his voice reverted to its normal timbre.

“I…I have no idea. But you felt it too, right? I felt warmth coming from your hand.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand…I _felt_ something. I haven’t been able to feel _anything_ in so long…” Virgil’s eyes were fixed on his hand, as if willing the color to come back. “Why did I feel _alive_ again?”

“What do you feel like normally?” Roman asked.

“Like nothing,” Virgil said, his eyes suddenly distant. He blinked, shaking his head. “I—I have to go. I can’t be here.”

“No, wait, Virgil!”

“ _Don’t,_ ” he hissed, “call out my name, Roman.”

Roman winced, but he recovered quickly. “Okay, then listen. I need your help. We need to work together to understand what’s going on. That hand thing is _not normal_.”

“None of this is normal, dumbass.”

“Right. And that’s why we need to figure it out. Look, can we just agree to not _not_ talk to each other?” Roman pleaded, watching the flutter of Virgil’s dress in an invisible breeze. He could’ve sworn he saw Virgil’s jaw clench.

“Fine. But we can’t meet here,” He muttered, his eyes flicking towards the stairwell warily.

“Down the hall on the right. Farthest room,” Roman said.

“Deal.”

Without another word, Virgil swooped away over the upper floor banister, disappearing into the depths of the old inn. With him, the cold spell dissipated.

Roman only realized later that the dark entity on the stairwell had vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a kudos or say hi in the comments! 'Til next time!


	6. Castaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Logan investigate the new information Virgil gave them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Just a quick update, I changed some dates in Chapter 4 for better historical accuracy. The updates have already been made, but for those of you who do not want to go back and reread, Virgil was 24 in 1969. Thanks!
> 
> WARNINGS: Homophobia (past), suspense

Roman’s encounter with Virgil had left him reeling—too much to process for one day. Immediately afterwards, he ran out of the inn, neglecting the work he had set aside for the day. As soon as he crossed over the bridge, he dialed Logan’s phone number. 

“Yes, Roman?”

“Logan, I just talked to him.”

A pause. “Virgil?”

“Yes. I have some new clues to his past. Can you meet me at the coffeeshop?”

“I’m still there. I’ll be in the back room.”

“And tell Patton. This is important.”

“Alright. See you soon.” Roman closed his phone. He quickened his pace to the coffeeshop, eager to report the news of their conversation. 

The shop was buzzing with activity; the noontime rush had just set in. Patton was unloading a bundle of newspapers from the nearby city, and he waved hello to Roman as the latter stepped into the shop. Roman could tell that Patton was curious to hear the news, so he made his way to the storage room as quickly as possible.

Patton slipped inside soon after Roman and gave a quick hello to Logan. The introductions were brief, however, and Roman was soon filing them in on the events of that morning. 

“When I got home he was singing—I recognized it as the song Scarborough Fair. It was terrifying, yet beautiful, and I—”

Logan cleared his throat, and he took that as a cue to move on. 

“Long story short, I sung the next few lines and then he told me that he hadn’t heard someone sing like that in almost 52 years. _That means we know how long he’s been dead!”_

“Fifty-two…that would put his death date at about 1968 or 1969. Our only dilemma is knowing whether or not his counting was accurate. So, give or take a year or so.” Logan pushed up his glasses.

“The poor guy. Being alone for fifty-two years…” Patton murmured. 

“But this does mean we could find someone who was alive during that time and ask them what they knew about Virgil,” Roman said. 

“That is correct. Given the circumstances, we’d probably be looking for someone in their 70’s. Patton, would you know anyone that’s been there that long?”

Patton furrowed his brows. “Yes, I think. Elaine Trask might be a good choice—she’s been here at least as long as I have, and people say she’s been here for quite a while if not her whole life.”

“Logan, do you have some time after this? I’d like to interview her as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Logan said. “Did you find anything else out when you talked to Virgil?”

Roman nodded. “But this is where it gets kind of weird. I asked him about the way he manipulated temperature to see if he was even aware of it—he wasn’t—but then he got upset and turned to leave and I just instinctually reached for his hand and…it was solid. I could feel him instead of just going right through. And then color started returning to his skin and I felt warmth coming from his hands, but it started to hurt so I had to let go.”  


“Did the color disappear afterwards?” Logan asked, shifting his weight on one of the coffee bean containers. 

“Yes. He just went back to being translucent.”

“That is…fascinating. Typical ghost lore would suggest that one cannot do that.”  


“It started to hurt?” Patton said. “Let me see our hand.”  


“No, I’m fine now, I promise. The pain left when I let go. But…it does have some interesting implications. Oh, and he also agreed to meet with me once a week to try to figure out what’s going on.”

Logan responded, obviously still deep in thought. “I will research into this some more…”

“Be back in a minute,” Patton said, ducking out to help some of the cafe patrons. 

“Do you think it would be possible for Patton and I to meet him at one of your meetings?” Logan asked suddenly.

“I’m not sure. Maybe if I can convince him beforehand,” Roman said. “I should warn you, though, he has quite the biting sense of humor. 52 years alone has made him…eccentric?”  


“Hm,” Logan nodded. “I believe I can handle it. If he will allow me.”

“Good. Then all we have to do is interview Elaine Trask.”

——

Elaine’s house was just up the road from the coffeeshop, past a weaving cobblestone path that led up into the side of the hill. Her house was surrounded by wildflowers blooming in all sorts of colors; a slightly unkempt garden, but beautiful nonetheless. 

Roman knocked on Elaine’s door, and a voice from the inside quickly responded: “Come on in!” Logan and Roman glanced at each other before opening the old oak door and stepping inside. In front of them was a wood-tiled hallway that branched off into multiple rooms. 

“Mrs. Trask? We just wanted to ask you some questions about an old resident here,” Roman called out the seemingly empty space. 

“Was it Jefferson again? I told that crazy old man to stop growing weed in his backyard months ago—oh, you’re not the police,” Elaine said, poking her head out of one of the rooms. “Hello, come on in. I’m just whipping something up in the kitchen.”

Roman and Logan obliged, ducking into the kitchen space. The scent of baking bread quickly wafted into their noses as Mrs. Trask led them to some chairs in the kitchen. 

“So, you two young men were asking about a resident here?” 

“Yes ma’am. My name is Logan, this is Roman. We have an incomplete death certificate that seems to have been burned and we are looking for information to complete it and hopefully restore the document.” _Nice excuse_ , Roman thought. “We were informed by my friend Patton at the coffeeshop that you might be able to help us?”

“I see. I’ll do my best. What was their name?” She said, grabbing a teapot and pouring two cups of tea for them. 

“Virgil. The last name was burned off the certificate. We think he was here some time around 1968 or 1969?” Roman and Logan both noticed when Mrs. Trask’s hand’s froze over the coffeepot. She furrowed her brows for a second before re-orienting herself, lifting the teacups and bringing them over to the two. 

“I can tell you about him. But it isn’t a very happy story, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Trask,” Roman said, his eyes already sparkling with curiosity. She nodded lightly, taking a chair to sit down in.

“Well, Virgil—I think his last name was Morris—seemed like a pretty normal kid in high school. I’d seen him around the town, and he was pretty recognizable by the way he always dyed his hair purple. Nice enough kid, a couple years younger than me. I didn’t get to see him very much. He was always fairly…liberal-minded, which was rare in this town back then. That was the only thing that really made him ‘odd’, as some people called it, in high school. He was quite nice,” Mrs. Trask repeated, and Roman half wondered if she even realized it. “The _problem_ , I suppose you could call it, came a little after he went to college, down near the capital. The war was starting to intensify back then and he became a very dedicated protester.”

“The Vietnam war?” Logan clarified.

“Yes,” She said. “I lost quite a few friends to that war.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Roman said, his brows knitted in concern. 

“Thank you. It’s been many years since then, at least. Anyways, where was I…Ah. Virgil returned to this town shortly after he finished college, but being more outspoken about his values as a result of the protests…distanced him from his family. They fought often, and sometimes I would see him pacing the town at night when the fights got bad. That’s when he really got on the bad side of the town’s gossip—of which there was a lot, I should remind you. I don’t know how he did it, faced with the rumors outside and the fighting in his own home. The constant rejection. He left soon after, back to the city where he had gone to university. I don’t know much about his time there except for that he participated in more Vietnam protests. Came back two years later, December 1968, having not spoken to his family since the last time they saw each other. There was a rumor that he had gotten in trouble with the police at one of the protests, or thought the risk of it was too great, but in any case there he was. He made up to his parents and was getting along fine for quite a while, too, until sometime the following spring, when the arguing started again. I suppose he was tired of being told how he had to act by his family.”

“What happened after that?” Roman asked, after a couple of seconds had passed in silence. 

“This is the hardest part to tell,” Mrs. Trask sighed. After another pause, she continued. “By December of that year, nothing had gotten better. That’s when the first draft lottery for the war happened. Well, it was in that first lottery that Virgil’s numbers got called.” Logan scribbled down a note on his pad of paper. “It was sadly ironic—the very thing Virgil had been fighting against, yet there he was…the first to go.”

“So he fought in the Vietnam war? Is that how he died?”

“Well, no,” Mrs. Trask said, her voice soft. “A few days after his draft notice had come in, Virgil’s parents kicked him out. Apparently they figured out that he was…abnormal in other ways as well.”

“How so?” Logan asked, pen at the ready. 

“He was a homosexual.” Roman froze. “The town wasn’t so accepting of that—or anything ‘out of the ordinary’—back then, and Virgil’s parents were no exception. So, the rumor gets around that he likes men, and suddenly no one in the village will go near him, he is refused service by all the town’s shops…I have no idea where he lived once he was kicked out. But he was alone. Completely.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have had the strength to do that on my own, however he managed…”

Roman bit his lip in the pensive silence that followed. He wasn’t expecting to learn this much during this inquiry. _No wonder he can be so…defensive. He still thinks he has to protect himself._

“The last time I saw him was the last time anyone saw him at all. I was running errands in the town centre when I noticed people stopping and staring, so I stopped too to see what they were looking at. It was Virgil. I just remember him marching through the square, his eyes staring straight forward…this defiant look on his face. He was wearing some lavender full-length dress and a flower crown on his head. This whole elaborate thing. And everyone just stared. I think I heard a couple of slurs, too. Then…well, he headed off towards the direction of the inn. To my knowledge, no one ever saw him again. Most people seemed to think that he ran away to Canada to escape the draft. Or maybe to escape all that hatred…”

“Wow,” Roman whispered, taking the last sips of his tea. 

Logan finalized some of his notes. “So, I suppose the death certificate was made shortly after he disappeared, as no one knew where he was.”

“Most likely.”

Roman nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Trask. We appreciate you sharing this story with us.”

“Of course. Come by again some time, it gets quiet up here. Maybe I should get a cat…” She murmured to herself as the two made their way out. 

——

It was late that night before Roman got home again, his eyelids heavy from the day of investigations. The trio had stayed in the back room for hours after the coffeeshop closed to discuss the day’s findings, though little new ideas or breakthroughs were found. The process was already getting to be exhausting. 

The inn’s porch was lit by a small solar lamp Roman had installed a couple of days ago, and its bluish light shone eerily over the clearing. It made the white bedsheets hanging outside look as though they were glowing. In the distance Roman could hear the river trickling by. When he got to the porch, he could see his breath crystallizing from the cold and his nose and ears were starting to flush from it. 

He quickly started up the fireplace when he got in, eager to warm up the cold that had set in on the place. Insulating the inn was still a major problem on his list of things in need of fixing, so the fire would have to do until then. On top of somehow finding a way to reach the second floor of the building—that was going to be a thorn in his side as well. 

Roman tossed a glance over at the stairwell, despite the instant regret he knew he would feel. He didn’t want to dwell on the fears that drove people away from the inn. He wanted to restore the place, make a new life for himself…

_Wait._

_Where is it?_ Roman squinted at the stairwell, which he realized looked much, much brighter than usual—and it wasn’t because of the fireplace. He stood up from the mattress that was laid out in front of the fireplace to examine it, a flashlight in hand. 

When he stepped past the foyer, he turned the flashlight on, pointing it down each of the hallways. Sure enough, the dark patch at the end of the hall was still there—as creepy and somewhat encroaching as ever. 

But Roman trusted his gut on this—the entity on the stairwell was gone. 

Which meant _they could move_. 

Roman shivered, glancing around again to check for the dark entity’s presence elsewhere. 

Nothing. 

_Where could a dark entity go?_ He stared at the stair rail suspiciously. _No. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t._

_I’m gonna do it._

He pushed aside the notion that touching the railing might cause Virgil to drop by and took a step onto the staircase. He stood there for a moment, waiting for something to happen. 

Nothing. The entity was gone. 

He took another step forward, then another, listening to the creak of the unused stairs beneath his feet. Every third step, he stopped himself and examined his surroundings for the entity—or for something else. He reached the top of the winding staircase with no signs of the entity and infinitely more questions. Almost instantly he was drawn towards the balcony railing which overlooked the downstairs foyer. The glow of the fireplace dully lit up the polished wood of the railing, indicating that it needed a new layer of finish. 

A chill running down the back of Roman’s spine caused him to turn his back to the railing, letting the thin beam of the flashlight wash over the area now in front of him. The upstairs floor had almost the same layout as the downstairs: A hallway splitting off from the main area in either direction, windows dotting the walls and one facing back at him from the very end of each hall. He noticed upon closer examination that the windows had been boarded up, and in an extremely haphazard and unhelpful way. Most of them were half-shut or broken, and all were covered in a thick layer of dust. _That would explain the draft that’s been coming through here._ He began to re-organize his mental to-do list, including buying a new gallon of white paint for the sills. 

Roman tried to stifle a sneeze from the dust clouds. It was a mess, and he was itching to get started on the cleaning, though that would have to wait until sunrise. _What time is it, anyways?_

He took a glance at his wristwatch: 1:12 a.m. 

_Well, I’ve made it this far. Might as well explore._

Reluctantly, his feet turned him in the direction of the hall splitting off to the left: the one that housed the dark entity downstairs. The flashlight gleamed over creaky floorboards, masked by a layer of carpet that must have been installed a couple of years after the house was built. He moved carefully, making sure the upper floor could support his weight. Each of the rooms on this side seemed fine (minus the layers of dust and detail work Roman would have to alter later). The room at the end of the hall seemed normal enough, but Roman noticed a patch of discolored carpet in the middle of the room that he decided he should leave alone for as long as possible. 

The other side of the hallway also appeared to be free of any dark entities. He moved room by room down the hall without sign of the stairwell entity, which only left him with more questions. He finally reached his last room at the end of the hall at about 2:45, his eyes bleary and heavier than they were before. He had become oblivious to the cold that surrounded him, and the fact that the fireplace on the story below had been reduced to smoke and embers. 

After a quick sweep of the door, he tugged on the dust-covered door handle. At first, the door wouldn’t budge, but after another yank it opened, the hinges protesting loudly. This room was normal, like the others, except for one important difference. 

“Virgil?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Be sure to tell me what you think! :)


	7. Reparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman discovers Virgil's room--and accidentally lets some things slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Distressing images/helplessness (skip the beginning section)  
> Some language throughout  
> Mentions of homophobia
> 
> Song lyrics used in this video belong to Disney.

_December 1969_

_Run. Run, Virgil._

The forest seemed to be encroaching in around him; the suffocating silence took away even the sound of snow crunching underfoot as he ran. The thorny brush stuck out and tore the edges of his dress. He gasped for breath, and the cold air around him sent the sensation of sharp needles into his lungs. His legs were burning.

_Don’t stop. Don’t turn around._ He glanced at his hand.

_Oh God. It’s spreading._

Black, jagged spirals like ink laced up his arm, all the way up to his shoulder. The entire left side of his body felt numb.

_It’s reached my leg. Shit_.

He stumbled along at a limp, dragging his now-useless leg through the snow. The cold of the ice had turned his bare feet purple.

Suddenly he cried out as a flash of pain moved through his right leg.

_No. No. Not here, I can’t die here, I can’t die h—_

Virgil tumbled forward into the snowbank as his legs gave out beneath him. He rolled onto his back with his right arm, cradling his left in front of him. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore.

With a whimper, he used his right arm to push himself backwards, until that too succumbed to the numbness. He fell back, partially obscured by the brush.

His limbs felt weak, almost weightless, like the blight was eating away at his muscles. He could hardly even feel the chill of the snow as he gasped for breath. He lifted a shaky hand, crying out at the effort it required, and confirmed it: the twisted, black lines had spread to the other arm, blotting out his veins.

_The heart is a muscle too,_ he thought, a new flare of panic running through his frail body. _No, no, no…_

“No one is coming to help you, Virgil,” he heard someone call out, the sound of their footsteps growing closer. Suddenly he felt weightless; his body was floating off the ground. His head tipped to the side against his will, and he saw it.

He saw… _him_.

And his vision went black.

——

_Present day_

Another restless night.

It was nights like this when Virgil could’ve sworn he tasted bitterness in his mouth as he paced back and forth on the floor of his room—despite that he didn’t really _taste_ anything…or feel anything, for that matter…

_‘Did you know you…radiate cold?_ ’

Virgil groaned, dragging a hand down his face.“Get out of my head,” he murmured to himself. His head was still spinning from his interaction with Roman just that afternoon. He wanted to know why Roman had reached out and grabbed his arm. Why he was suddenly able to _feel_ again.

He felt the chill of his own icy hands meet the warmth of Roman’s, remembered the sensation of a body warming in front of a hearth—never realizing how much he missed it, until he got to watch the feeling drip away from him back into Roman. Back into the dull nothingness.

_God damn it, Virgil, you can’t answer those questions_ , he thought. _You don’t get to know why you felt something when your hands touched, you don’t get to do it again. Ever. It hurt him. Besides, last time you started asking questions…_

_No. No more questions. Just accept it as part of the past, Virgil. You can’t go digging up stuff that wants to stay buried._

He sighed, looking around his room for a distraction. His eyes moved from the paper and pencil on his desk (he had tried many times to write with it, to no avail) to the walls of his room, draped in many year’s worth of spiderwebs and dust. The peeling wallpaper. A stack of books in the corner of the room that he had read hundreds of times that he knew practically by heart. A tiny bed with a carved wooden frame, whose luster he had watched fade over the years.

Yet despite his best attempts, he couldn’t stop thing about the man that owned the inn. Roman was…how could he even put it into words?

_Persistent. Stubborn. Naïve, maybe._

_But he’s curious. Damn it, he’s always looking around and asking questions_. Virgil’s heart ached with longing as he thought of all the questions he wanted to answer himself.

_And he’s…he’s the first person to treat me like a person. Why the hell does that get to me?_

When Roman first saw Virgil, he didn’t scare away like the others. _He_ … _he looked at me with this lopsided grin and those eyes…those ridiculous, curious, beautiful brown eyes._

So, naturally, Virgil panicked and responded with as much biting sarcasm as he could muster. Even _that_ didn’t push him away. Virgil didn’t want to admit that it felt nice to have someone who wouldn’t just run away at the simplest sideways glance.

Not that he was going to admit that to anyone. Ever.

He drifted over to the window and he settled himself on the windowsill, pulling his legs into his chest. The tattered opaque curtains fluttered slightly as he shifted into place. Virgil glanced at his hand for a second, before clenching it into a fist and tearing his gaze away to the scenery outside. Two deer picked their way through the silent forest just outside the clearing, grazing on the tall grasses.

Virgil exhaled as he leaned his face against the glass. _Why isn’t he afraid of me?_

_Why am I not afraid of_ him _?_

_I really, really should be. He wants to dig, he wants to find all the answers to things that should stay buried. For his own safety._ He grimaced, a painful memory slipping to the surface. _He’s going to get himself hurt._

He shook his head, trying to brush off the thought. _Why should I even care? Why am I worried about what happens to him? It’s not like anyone worried about me wh—_

_Damn it, Virgil_ , he thought to himself, shoving the rest of that thought into some deep corner of his mind. _You care because you don’t want anyone to go through that again._

_Roman doesn’t deserve to go through hell. But the way he’s digging, he might just step too far over the edge._ He frowned at a sudden strange felling in his chest, and he moved his hand up to clutch at the space over his heart. _That’s…weird._

Roman’s face seemed to be stuck in his head: the tousled, curly amber hair, the look of determination he carried with him everywhere, the grin that Virgil could only describe as handsome.

_Handsome??? What do you mean, handsome??_ He shook his head, trying to erase the thought from his mind, but it wouldn’t budge. Even worse, he couldn’t muster up enough dread or fear to bury his feelings deep down into the pit of his being.

_Feelings. What feelings? They’re not feelings, it’s just an observation of his good looks. And personality. And—_

_Ah, shit._

Being flustered was not something Virgil was used to. He was used to nothingness. Calm, dull silence of the heart.

Apparently his heart was going on strike, or something.

_God damn it, why did this have to happen_ now _?_

_It’s fine, I just need to avoid him and maybe the feelings will go away_ —

_CREEAK._ Virgil whipped suddenly towards the door—the door that hadn’t budged in years. He clenched his fist, realizing there were really only two options for who it could be… _shit. How did they get out??_ He stared, frozen, at the door as it steadily creaked open. When he saw who it was, he wasn’t sure if his heart had plummeted into his stomach or burst from his chest altogether.

“Virgil?”

Virgil stared back, blinking once. “R-Roman? How the hell did you get up here?”

He took in the man in front of him: covered in dust and cobwebs, still wearing the same clothes from that afternoon. And despite the obvious bags under his eyes, he still held something in them that made them sparkle. That curiosity.

_Damn it. These feelings aren’t going away without a fight, are they?_

“Uh, well. The stair-demon-thing appears to be gone. So I just came up to check it out?” _Of course, you curious little dumbass._

“Woah, woah, woah,” Virgil said, holding his hands out in front of him. He floated out from his spot on the windowsill to get a better look at the man. _NOT IN A GAY WAY—_ “There’s a lot that needs to be unpacked here. He’s _gone_? Where the hell did he go?”

“He?” Virgil blinked.

“Forget I said that. Where did _it_ go?” Roman raised a brow.

“I haven’t the faintest. I looked for _it_ , but I didn’t see _it_ on the staircase or in any of the upstairs rooms.”

“Okay, stop emphasizing _it_ ,” Virgil sighed with exasperation. “So you can climb up the stairs now. But it’s really dark outside. What time is it? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, sleeping?”

Roman glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s about 3 am. And I _probably_ should be sleeping, but I wanted to see what it looked like up here just in case the staircase demon comes back.”

“And what if it’s _already_ back?” Virgil said, doing his best impression of the ‘this-is-why-you-are-a-dumbass’ voice. “You won’t be able to get back down. You’re not safe here.”

Roman shrugged. “I mean, I feel pretty safe _here_ ,” he said. Virgil froze. He felt the weird ache in his chest coming back. In the silence that followed, Roman began examining the space around him. “So this is your room?”

“I—” Virgil stuttered, suddenly at a loss for words. He scratched the back of his neck, not knowing why he was suddenly overcome with… _embarrassment? Sheepishness?_ “I mean, yeah, I guess. This is where I’ve been staying.” Roman glanced at the stack of books in the corner of his room.

“Nice place,” Roman said, plain but sincere. He sat down by the stack of books, turning his head to read the titles. “The binding’s broken on most of these.” His finger traced the spine of the book on top.

“There’s not too much to do except read when you’re stuck inside an in for fifty years,” Virgil said softly. “I can pick up and open books, but I can’t wear down the pages. Only the binding.”

“What—” Roman yawned. “What _can_ you interact with?”

“Uh…” _Why am I telling him this??_ “I mean, most heavy objects. Lighter stuff is harder. I can’t really interact with the spiderwebs, for instance. Or dust. And sometimes my hand will go through paper. I also can’t write anymore. Whenever I try, the pencil just slips through my h—wait, are you sleeping?”

Sure enough, Roman had drifted to sleep leaning against the wall next to Virgil’s books. His chest rose and fell in an even and slow rhythm, and Virgil couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at Roman’s antics.

_Poor dude hasn’t gotten any sleep,_ Virgil thought, noticing the streaks of dust running along Roman’s face. The thought crossed his mind that he should move Roman onto a bed or something similar, but he remembered what happened last time he touched Roman and decided against it. _Though…_

Virgil’s gaze drifted to his hand, and he remembered seeing the color return to it, briefly entertaining the thought of maybe—

_No. You hurt him last time. You’re not doing that again._ Virgil glanced back at the bed. He drifted over and yanked the thin quilt off, sending a cloud of dust flying. Ignoring it, he brought the quit to Roman and draped it over the sleeping man. He furrowed his brows.

_I wonder if I could…_ Virgil bit his lip, considering for a moment, before he took the edges of the quilt and wrapped them around Roman, lifting the man into the air. He felt practically weightless in his arms, like everything else Virgil lifted, but at least the quilt kept him from hurting Roman. He wondered for a moment what it felt like to be lifted by a ghost, but shook it off as he set Roman down on the bed, covering him with the quilt. The man didn’t seem to be disturbed by the movement; his face was peaceful, though the bags under his eyes were definitely visible. Virgil hovered above him for a moment, trying to remember what it felt like to sleep, before he shook his head and turned away. He took one last look behind him before leaving the room.

“Good night, Roman,” he whispered.

——

Roman awoke with a sneeze, squinting as a sudden light hit his eyes. He turned onto his side to block it out and frowned. _This is…not my bed?_ He propped himself up on one elbow and took in his surroundings.

Peeling wallpaper. Stack of books. Rows of spiderwebs draped across the ceiling, catching the light of a sunwashed window. A quaint room—definitely in the style of the inn’s. _Wait a minute…I’m upstairs, aren’t I?_

Suddenly the memories of last night’s encounter came flooding back into his head. _The upstairs is open…and…Virgil. He was here_ , Roman realized as sat up, trying to wipe the dust from his eyes—to no avail. _This is his room. But where is he?_

As if on cue, the door suddenly seemed to glow and ripple as a narrow figure passed through, his head downcast and arms handing loosely at his sides. Suddenly he whirled to face the bed, causing the edges of his tattered dress to billow out. The ghost’s startled eyes met Roman’s and they both froze, staring, until Virgil finally spoke up.

“Y-you’re awake.”

“Hey, Virgil,” Roman said with a yawn.

Virgil was sure he was only anxious because he wasn’t expecting Roman to be awake yet. Not because Roman’s sleepy, half-dazed expression and rumpled hair was at _all_ adorable in any way. Nah. _Definitely_ not…

“So, uh…did I fall asleep here? Because I do _not_ remember—”

“Yes. Yeah. You fell asleep there,” Virgil said quickly before Roman could finish that thought. “You came up here really late—early, I guess. And uh, you started dozing off so you just…” he pointed to the bed, trailing off.

_ That was...not at all convincing. _

“Oh,” Roman said, furrowing his brows. “Sorry if I was encroaching, I guess I just got carried away exploring.”

Virgil huffed, a small smile playing on his lips. “Don’t worry about it.” Roman’s gaze hovered on the man in front of him for a second before he tore away, glancing down at his watch instead. He suddenly shot out of the bed, making a quick motion to tame his wild hair.

“It’s already ten?” He said. “I really need to get to work.”

“Y-yeah. Okay.”

“Something wrong, flower power?” Roman raised a brow, taking in Virgil’s fiddling hands.

Virgil frowned. “Flower p—” his head snapped up suddenly. “How the hell do you know about that?”

_Uh oh,_ Roman thought, his smile falling. _There goes the ceasefire._ He opened his mouth and closed it again, searching for the right words to resolve the situation.

“Okay, um…please don’t freak out?”

“Don’t freak out? _Don’t freak out?_ You’ve been digging into my personal life without my permission and I’m supposed to not freak out?” Virgil’s voice began to amplify, taking on a hollow timbre as he floated closer. Roman stumbled on the corner of Virgil’s bed, falling backwards and edging himself further back until he hit the wall behind him.

“Please, Virgil, just listen to me.”

“ _What?_ What could possibly be so important that it constitutes you poking around into parts of my life I don’t want to share? Do you realize how invasive that is?” The furious ghost was mere inches away from Roman, his eyes flaring. Roman flinched and held up a defensive hand, waiting for some inevitable strike to his face or flash of pain. After waiting a couple of seconds he gradually opened his eyes, hardly realizing they were closed, to find Virgil staring at him from further away, his arms crossed. Roman let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“V-Virgil, please just listen to me. I was trying to help—”

“Help how? How could knowing about those protests help?” Virgil’s voice had returned to normal—quieter, even. There was something strangely soft in the way his silver-brown eyes flicked down to the ground, something Roman couldn’t decipher.

“I—” Roman faltered, hand dropping to his side. “I was trying to learn about those dark entities that are…taking up an unwanted residence here. I wanted to get rid of them. And—I thought that the digging might lead to some sort of weakness, a way to make them leave or something.”

Virgil scoffed. “You don’t know anything about them.”

“But I want to! And you keep warning me to stop but how can I stop when I have no idea what the whole problem is yet? If I stay ignorant then I will be defenseless. Why else would I keep digging?”

“Because you’re a nosy go-getter who can’t mind his own damn business,” Virgil said, the flare returning to his voice.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to invade your personal life, I just want answers. And I will find them—I’ll get rid of those…whatever they are.”

Virgil’s frown deepened. “Then you’ll die trying.”

“Sorry, was that a _threat_?”

“No. It’s a promise. They’ll kill you, Roman.” Despite the situation, hearing his name roll off of Virgil’s tongue sent an unwanted shiver through his spine. “And I won’t be able to stop them.”

Virgil disappeared before Roman had a chance to respond. Instead he was left sitting there, looking out at the empty space where he had been. He blinked twice as he tried to process what had happened.

_Damn it, Roman. You did it again. Why can’t you ever stop scaring people away?_ He mentally slapped himself for not even asking Virgil for permission. And for not apologizing in full when he had the chance. And for yelling. And—

He buried his face in his hands with a sigh. The conversation—no, argument—had thrown Roman off balance. He didn’t want to fight Virgil at all. He wanted to help. But his frustrations and the damn curiosity threw all of that careful planning out the metaphorical window.

‘ _Why’d you have to fight him? Why are you always so headstrong?_ ’ A whispered moment from a memory came to the surface of his mind, causing him to frown.

He stood up, letting his hands drop to his sides as he glanced around at all the little accents of the room—the books, the spiderwebs, the desk with discarded pencils and paper—all of which seemed to be saying to him, _“You did this. You messed up again.”_

After a moment he wiped the dust out of his eyes, stepping out and away from the room, his feet taking him towards the stairwell. Downstairs, he snatched up his cleaning supplies with considerably more force than he had intended, causing them to clatter and echo along the empty halls. He trudged back upstairs and went to the hallway opposite Virgil’s room, grudgingly starting his work.

_Even if you’re not going to talk to him you still need to work. Being upset will get you nowhere_ , he told himself.

Roman was upset, alright. But it wasn’t frustration that moved his hands and kept him scrubbing the windows, tables, furniture…it was confusion. He worked away trying to distract himself from the raging curiosity that had been gnawing at him after Virgil and his fight. If Virgil thought warning Roman yet again would put a damper on his curiosity, he was wrong—much to Roman’s own frustration. It seemed his mind was working against him this time.

He wanted to listen to Virgil, yet it was eating at him, sitting in a house full of secrets and being unable to explore them—unable to help.

So, the best way out was to stay distracted—keep his hands busy, keep focused on the stuff in front of him so he could at least try to uphold Virgil’s wishes. He hadn’t eaten breakfast and it was well past 2 pm before he realized he hadn’t stepped away for lunch either. He groaned in frustration at himself, all the hunger gone from him.

Even the scrubbing, by that time, wasn’t enough to keep his mind from wandering. So, halfway through cleaning his second room, he began to sing. Soft melodies at first, barely above a hum. His favorite Disney movies, Broadway show tunes, and a couple of favorites he had picked up along the way. Those helped distract him for a bit, a trance into his imagination that put his restless curiosity at ease.

That is, until he felt the faint prickling of a cold draft behind him—one that he knew wasn’t coming from the opened windows. He didn’t turn to see his visitor, instead allowing him to live in blissful anonymity. Roman finished singing _Dreamer_ and he began an internal search for songs that Virgil might recognize, until finally he had an idea. As he finished wiping down the windowsill, he began to hum the melody of _Once Upon a Dream_.

“ _I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…_ ” He set down his cleaning supplies and stepped over to the old bed, catching a glimpse of something flutter in the corner of his eye. It darted out of his line of vision almost as quickly as it appeared.

“ _I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam…” Gah, this is so cheesy. What if he just uses it to make fun of me later?_ He pulled the sheets and mattress cover from the bed, letting the dust billow out as he pulled them into his arms.

“ _Yet I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem.”_ Roman’s fingers grew cold as he tossed aside the sheets and began dusting the bed frame.

“ _But if I know you, I know what you’ll do—_ ”

“He’ll kiss you without your consent is what he’ll do,” Virgil piped up suddenly. Roman jumped, having gotten lost in the song, and whirled around.

“Virgil!” Roman exclaimed, albeit subdued. “I—I wasn’t expecting to see you…after, y’know…” He trailed off. It was true, or at least it had been until he had felt the man’s cold front behind him.

“Yeah, well, I heard you singing and I wanted to see if you had gone crazy yet. But hey, when you’re not completely off pitch you don’t sound half bad,” Virgil said, his voice bordering on sheepish. It took Roman a second to realize that Virgil was messing with him, but when he did, something in his chest seemed to loosen up and he nearly sighed with relief.

“You’ve wounded me,” He said in mock-offense, clutching a hand over his heart dramatically. “I’ll have you know I was the best singer in my class at high school!”

“Uh-oh, we’ve got a _professional_ here, I’m sooo intimidated,” Virgil snorted. “So was it a class of three kids or four?”

Roman pretended to stagger backwards in shock. “That hurts, Marilyn _Morose_.” 

Virgil snickered, and suddenly Roman froze. The realization crossed his mind that he hadn’t ever seen Virgil smile before, let alone heard the sound of his laugh.

It was captivating.

That was the only way Roman could think to describe it.

Somehow it was like the sound of rain in the early morning, the steady, calming patter on a rooftop that drew one back under the covers of their beds and made everything seem all right. It only lasted a couple of seconds before it was gone again, but Roman was already ensnared, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

“Hey, Earth to Roman,” Virgil said, waving his hand. Roman blinked.

_Shoot, he caught you staring. How long_ were _you looking at him??_

“S-sorry. I was just, uh.” He drew in a breath. _Now’s your chance. Swallow your pride, Roman._ “Virgil, I need to apologize to you. I messed up this morning. I’m sorry I snapped at you, and that I dug into your past without considering how you might feel about it. That was…that was wrong.” He bit his lip, trying to gage Virgil’s reaction. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Virgil stared back at him, his expression incredulous. Roman swallowed. _He probably thinks I’m faking it. Or he just hates me and he was going to try to kick me out before I apologized and now he’s gonna—_

“You’re—you’re just apologizing?” Virgil frowned, his voice soft. “No catch?”

Roman raised a brow. “Yes? I was the one at fault, so I am the one who needs to own up for it.”

“But—I yelled at you.”

“You got scared, and that’s understandable given the circumstances. Is this not a normal thing for you?” Roman asked gently.

“No, not really,” he said.

Roman took a step closer to Virgil, ignoring the chill coming off the man’s body. “Then I am sorry for that as well. You are just as worthy of a true apology as any other person, and I am sorry you were denied that before.” Roman could’ve sworn he saw the corner of Virgil’s mouth twitch upward, but the ghost turned his face away before he got a good look.

“Thanks,” Virgil mumbled. Roman reached out to squeeze Virgil’s hand before remembering that he was a ghost and weird things happened when he did that.

“So, uh…is there anything I can do?” he asked, trying to break the silence. Virgil blinked, an idea suddenly coming to his mind.

“Uh…” he fidgeted with his fingers for a moment. “Could you…No, I don’t know, it’s kinda stupid.”

“I’ll do it. Just tell me what it is,” Roman said softly. Virgil bit his lip.

“Could you…tell me about the future? Or, like, the present, I mean. I—I don’t know much about what happened after I…became a ghost,” Virgil whispered, staring at his feet.

“Of course! I’ll do the best I can,” Roman said with a small smile. He looked around at the mess that was his cleaning project before brushing aside some of his cleaning supplies and laying out the old bedsheets on the wood-panel floor. Then he plopped himself on top of the sheet, patting the space next to him. Virgil stared for a second before he floated over, a mildly puzzled expression settling on his face.

“W-what is this?” He asked slowly.

“This,” Roman said, kicking his legs out in front of him and leaning back on the bed frame. “This is me telling you whatever you would like to know about the future. Shoot.”

Virgil blinked. “Wait, we’re doing this now? Like, right now?” Roman nodded. “Uh…o-okay, uh…gah, I was not prepared for this.”

“Take your time, I’m on my own work schedule here.”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Um…what happened to the space program? How many planets have we explored?”

Roman grinned. “In terms of manned missions, we’ve still only reached the moon. They shut down the moon landing program a while ago. But they’ve sent out probes to Venus, Mars, and a couple of the moons surrounding Saturn and Jupiter. They also managed to land probes on a couple of comets, and they sent one out to deep space.”

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Like, out of the solar system deep space?”

“Yep. Pretty cool, right?” Virgil nodded, turning to face Roman full on. 

“What is that box thing you carry everywhere? The one that you have in your pocket sometimes.”

“Oh! That’s my phone,” Roman said. He reached to his back pocket and pulled it out for Virgil to see. Virgil raised a brow.

“There’s no dial.”

“No need.” Roman turned on the power button, casting a faint light on the room. He watched as the light shone straight through Virgil’s features without leaving a shadow. Virgil, meanwhile, stared at the bright face of the screen until it faded away to black.

“Wait, where’d it go? Where are the dialing buttons?” Roman clicked the power button and unlocked the phone, placing it in front of Virgil again. The man sat, transfixed, as Roman began to explain the little nuances of the phone.

They spent two hours this way, Virgil discovering all the little details of the phone and Roman explaining how technology had advanced in the last fifty years. It was a large task, but Roman knew it was worth it—the way Virgil’s face lit up with curiosity and fascination, the guarded features gradually melting away…he couldn’t help but share in Virgil’s smiles. Before they knew it, the sun was approaching the horizon, and Roman was again reminded that he had forgotten to eat by the rumbling of his stomach. Virgil looked at him in confusion.

“When was the last time you ate, Roman?”

“Well…last night?” Virgil’s eyes widened.

“I’ve been talking to you this entire time and you haven’t eaten anything? Roman!”

“Sorry,” Roman said sheepishly.

“No ‘sorry’! Go get food! Now!” Virgil demanded, but Roman could feel the teasing in his voice. He flashed a smirk in Virgil’s direction before standing up from their makeshift hangout space.

“Fiiine,” he said, dragging his feet playfully.

“I _will_ throw something, Roman.”

——

Roman walked into town with a grin still playing on his face. He couldn’t seem to shake it; seeing Virgil smile lit some kindling he didn’t know he had left in his heart. He wanted to dance in the little square, to sing a ballad to the whole world like he was in a musical, to share the little feeling that maybe wasn’t so little anymore.

Instead, he kept those feelings to himself, letting only the smile betray his mood. The general store owner seemed to notice this as Roman bought his produce, and he gave Roman an appreciative nod.

“I know that look,” he said with a sly grin. “Met someone special, did you?”

Roman practically beamed, a pink hue appearing on his cheeks. “Something like that.” The clerk laughed.

The urge to belt out every cheesy love song he knew hit Roman like a freight train. And when he got far enough down the little dirt road towards the inn, he may or may not have started to recite a couple of his favorites.

It wasn’t until he crossed the bridge that his wild imagination quelled, and he breathed in and out to try to cool down the red flush in his face. When he went inside, he quickly went to start a fire, snatching up his frying pan and cutting board and chopping the vegetables he bought. Soon he had a makeshift stir fry sizzling over the fire and he was quick to dig in. About halfway through eating, however, Virgil appeared out of nowhere again, causing Roman to jump and nearly drop his plate.

“Hey—oh, sorry for startling you—I have some more questions for you,” Virgil said abruptly. Roman blinked to reorient himself. As the daylight receded, the ghost’s figure was beginning to glow, making his features much more defined.

“Uh—sure. Go for it,” Roman said, gesturing for Virgil to sit across from him as he ate. Virgil obliged quickly, his intense gaze boring into Roman’s own.

“Why did you flinch away from me this morning? When we fought, I mean.” Roman froze, his gaze flicking away from the ghost and landing solidly on a square of floorboards that were suddenly incredibly interesting.

He swallowed thickly before responding. “It’s, uh…it’s complicated?” he sighed, setting down his plate. “Look, it isn’t your fault. I’m not afraid of you, I promise. It’s just—just a reflex.”

“Yeah, but that reflex would imply someone did something to you enough times to make it a normal reaction.”

Roman looked down. “It would.” Virgil’s brows furrowed in concern.

“You—you don’t have to talk about it if y—”

“No, it’s fine. It was a long time ago.” He rushed. “Short version is that my parents weren’t exactly pleased with me being…with me liking men,” he stuttered out, pretending not to see the way Virgil’s hand balled into a fist. “There was a lot at stake. They sent me off to one of those conversion therapy camps, and…yeah.”

Virgil stared at the man in front of him with a mixture of shock and worry. “I thought—I thought people would’ve stopped being so ignorant by now,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Roman.”

Roman shook his head. “It was a long time ago. And it’s not even that bad anymore, really.”

“It’s still not okay!” Virgil shouted suddenly, causing Roman’s head to snap up and finally meet Virgil’s eyes. “Has the world really not changed that much?”

“I mean, I like to think it has. Yeah, it’s a slow process, but there have been a lot more changes than you think. In fact, my parents were really going against the social norms. The only reason they really got away with it was…well, we can just say that they’re good at covering stuff up.”

“So…they’re mob bosses?”

“Oh, uh. No. They’re just…very rich.” Virgil raised a brow.

“That doesn’t make them right.”

Roman nodded. “I know. That’s…that’s why I left. I wanted to make something of myself, live free on my own without having to worry about any of that stuff. Seriously, it’s all good, Flower Power. I’ve—I’ve moved on.” Virgil glanced at Roman once more. He wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but he decided to drop it regardless.

“I have another question.”

“Shoot,” Roman said, taking another bite of his food.

“Any good music come out in the last fifty years?” A tentative grin appeared on Virgil’s face, almost concealed when he ducked his head. Almost, but not quite.

And he didn’t miss the way Roman’s face lit up in response.

“Oh, let me _tell_ you…”

——

It was well past midnight when Virgil finally made Roman sleep, realizing far too late that he had probably ruined Roman’s sleep schedule.

Roman sighed as he watched the spectre drift off. He’d complained that he hadn’t even felt tired, but as the bright white light of Virgil’s aura disappeared down one of the hallways, he suddenly felt a heaviness in his limbs that he hadn’t noticed before.

With a yawn, he laid back onto his sleeping bag, his eyes drifting up to stare at the ceiling.

And the dark patch on the ceiling stared right back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff? fluff wHO? 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Stay safe and be sure to drink some water!!


	8. Chilling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman finds the missing dark entity. Patton and Logan go on an adventure. Virgil takes a leap of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I have clawed my way out of the depths of my hiatus to produce this chapter, solely because it is spooky season. this is what I have become. I accept my fate.
> 
> WARNINGS: Suffocation, being trapped, claustrophobia (Skip "Roman couldn't move" to "He slowly propped himself...")

Roman couldn’t move.

His limbs seemed to be frozen in place, trapped under the covers of his sleeping bag. Whatever was above him had somehow forced his jaw shut, inhibiting any cry for help—Roman could only watch as the dark, faceless mass dripped from the ceiling at an agonizingly slow pace. It took on a form not unlike a black sludge as it pooled just to the right of Roman’s head.

His eyes darted back and forth, trying to see the figure or find some escape route—but his efforts were in vain. The viscous sludge stirred again, this time reaching up out of the pool like a poorly shaped arm. Roman watched with dread as the limb seemed to stretch to an unnatural length and reach all the way to the other side, the rest of the mass following and gradually creating an impenetrable black dome over Roman’s entire body. His muscles were practically twitching with the adrenaline that was pulsing through him now, making the agonizing stillness that held him in place almost painful.

That’s when he smelled it—the putrid, acidic scent of something far beyond rotten clotted his nostrils, making it nearly impossible to breathe, and a new wave of terror shuddered through him.

_Is it going to kill me? I’m going to die from this. I’m going to die._

“Why the long face?” A disembodied voice whispered to him, its words distorted as if it was speaking through several different mouths at once. Suddenly Roman’s jaw was released from whatever holdings the creature had had on it. He was free to speak.

_So…it wants to play with me?_

“Let me go,” Roman rasped, the sulfuric air rubbing against the inside of his throat like sandpaper. The mass seemed to pause for a moment, before the space above Roman’s head started to ripple and tremor. After a moment, it reshaped itself into…a face? Or something that closely resembled a face, with a few notable differences: where eyes should be, there were only two grotesque black indents. The mouth grinned unnaturally wide, displaying a row of black teeth—too many teeth for a human.

“How cute you people are. So…afraid. It’s almost sad,” the voice said. The grinning mouth with too many teeth did not move. “You showed so much bravado earlier when you dared to stay in this wreck of a house, I thought there might actually be some hope for you.”

“Yeah, well—” Roman gasped for breath. “You didn’t exactly put us on a level playing field, did you?” He noticed his vision was starting to go blurry. 

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” The face leaned in until it was mere centimeters above Roman’s. “Oh. You’re fading faster than I expected. Better get down to business, then,” it said in a cacophony of voices. _Were there more now than before or am I having an auditory hallucination?_

“Since you’re so determined to…stick around, I’m going to lay down some rules. Firstly…you will not speak of my location or this encounter to that wretched excuse of a spirit you are so fond of. In fact, you will not physically be _able_ to.” The grin seemed to grow wider, and Roman felt an odd tingling sensation in his shoulder. “Secondly. This inn belongs to _us_. And since you reside in it, so do you. If you make any attempt to… _get rid of us_ , I will retaliate—and you will end up as one of our pets, just like that pitiful little rat that mopes around here all the time. Am I clear?”

Roman’s consciousness was starting to recede, and only one thought stayed powerful enough to grab his attention: _GET OUT!_ He opened his mouth to speak, but only a choked sob escaped. Instead, he nodded his head as vigorously as possible, screwing his eyes shut to stop the tears that were beginning to form.

Suddenly the toxic air surrounding him faded away, and his eyes snapped open. He sucked in a lungful of the sweet, sweet oxygen, noting that the shadowy entity seemed to have receded. An upward glance confirmed it was back in the ceiling, just barely visible in the nighttime shadows. 

_How long was I in there?_ He wondered, turning around in his bed to find his phone. Every part of his body seemed to cry out in equal parts pain and relief as he realized he could move again, though he found him self much more sore than he had been before.

The digital clock was bright enough to make Roman squint, and it took him a while before he was actually able to read the time: _2:31 a.m._

_Wait. I went to bed almost two hours ago._

_That…_ thing _attacked me almost two hours ago._

_He couldn’t have been over me for more than…four minutes, I think? Or less?_

_I must’ve passed out. That air was nauseating._ Roman scrunched his nose, the faint remnants of the putrid smell still lingering around him.

He slowly propped himself onto his elbows, frowning when he felt another bout of dizziness take over.

_I need to tell Virgil what happened. I need to—_

A wave of exhaustion hit Roman and he fell back on his side.

_Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow_ , he thought, his eyelids already fluttering closed.

——

_“Poke.”_

_A raven ruffled its feathers in front of Roman, just a couple inches of his face. It tipped its head and opened its beak again. “Poke.”_

_Roman frowned as he blinked himself awake. “Did you just talk to me?”_

_“Poke.”_

_“Why—How are you speaking? You’re a raven.”_

_The raven’s black eyes stared at him apprehensively. “Rude. I’m not a raven.”_

_A giggle escaped Roman’s lips. In his exhaustion he found the prospect of a talking raven quite humorous. “Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”_

_ "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'” _

__

_Another giggle. “A raven that can quote Edgar Allen Poe. You seem like decent company to keep.”_

_“The Raven was canonically…not good company at all, though.” The raven turned to preen its feathers, the voice separating from the movement in its beak. The thought crossed Roman’s mind that this was familiar, that something about this should be terrifying to him, but he couldn’t seem to feel anything beyond mild amusement._

_“Eh, you seem nice enough, little raven, stick around. I am in dire need of company, especially one with such poetic mastery as yourself.” Roman grinned at the bird, or at least he thought he was grinning._

_“You_ have _company, Roman,” the voice whispered, and Roman watched as the little raven fluttered its wings before flying away. “You just have to wake up.”_

Roman’s eyes snapped open to see light streaming through the front windows of the inn.

_Ah. It was a dream._

_A really weird dream._

“Pooooooke,” A voice drawled out behind him, causing Roman to jump out of his sleeping bag.

“ _What_ the hell.”

“Oh. You’re awake,” Virgil said, sounding almost bored. Roman squinted, just barely finding the ghost’s outline in the bright light.

“You were…just saying ‘poke’ at me? Seriously?”

“Uh, yeah? I mean, I can’t actually poke you because weird things happen when I do that—stop looking at me like that it was the best thing I could think of,” Virgil said, and Roman could’ve sworn he saw the ghost cross his arms. “Also, you talk in your sleep. It’s hilarious.”

“That was _you?_ ” Roman said, trying to ignore the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “Rude. You totally crashed my dream.”

Virgil cackled. “You thought I was a _raven!”_

“I was having a fantastic dream, thank you very much,” Roman said defensively. “And you just had to go and possess the adorable little raven. I mean, what did it ever do to you?”

“Kept you from waking up, that’s for sure. You’ve been sleeping forever and I’m bored. I have more questions for you.” Roman ruffled his hair, attempting to make it resemble neatness at the very least.

“Could you give me, like, five minutes? I look like a mess.”

__  
  
“No you don’t, you look fine,” Virgil said. Roman could’ve sworn he heard the ghost’s voice waver, but he brushed the thought out of his mind.

“Just five minutes. I’ll meet you in your room, yeah?”

“Fiiine,” Virgil said, and Roman heard a subsequent dramatic sigh from farther away. He smiled to himself at the ghost’s antics.

Roman rushed through an abridged version of his morning routine and made his way up the stairs, his cleaning itinerary for the day all but forgotten. There was something else, too…he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was well acquainted with the nagging voice in the back of his head, though, and soon filed it under the list of “Things-you’ll-probably-remember-when-they’re-more-important” box in his mind.

He was sure he’d remember later.

——

“You would think Roman would have shown up by now.” Logan adjusted the position of his glasses on his nose, thumbing mindlessly through the old bound notebook in his hand.

Patton took a wary breath. “Well…we mustn’t simply expect him to come. He never _said_ he would, and besides, today’s not even one of our meeting days.”

“It _is_ one of our meeting days, Patton.”

“Is it?” Patton said absently, staring vaguely towards the door.

Logan glanced towards his acquaintance with a brow raised, studying the way Patton’s hands fidgeted with the edge of his apron. Everything about him was tense, his body almost angled at the door as if he might dash out from behind the counter of his store and into the street in a mere second.

It _had_ been a long time. Logan was concerned as well.

“When was the last time he came by, Patton?”

“Uhm.” Patton tore his eyes away from the door of the near-empty café and took a reluctant step towards Logan’s table. “Two days ago? When we interviewed Ms. Trask? That was the last time he was here. It hasn’t been _that_ long, I suppose,” He hastily added on, his eyes flicking again towards the door. Logan gestured to the chair across from him—which would be odd, considering Patton owned the shop and could theoretically sit wherever he pleased, but in the situation at hand…the man needed to get off his feet, at least—and Patton hesitantly joined him.

“Two days is not that long at all. Roman’s a competent adult, he can fare well on his own. As for the last sighting of Roman in the town, I heard he was at the market yesterday, around the evening. Your shop was closed by then. He couldn’t have stopped by if he wanted to.”

“That’s true,” Patton sighed. “I’m just…worried.”

“As am I. The two _entities,_ as they’re called, are particularly concerning. When I saw them in person I was worried something might happen to Roman...but, he’s persisted thus far. Besides, Virgil protected him from harm the last time one of the entities attacked him. I’m sure Roman is safe.”

Patton stopped listening after “entities.” Logan’s attempts at helping were appreciated, but Patton couldn’t bear to think of what might have happened to cause Roman to be nearly two hours late to their meeting. It must’ve been something incredibly important, or he wouldn’t have…

“Logan?” Patton murmured, resting his chin in his hands.

“Yes, Patton?”

“I guess you could say he _ghosted_ us.”

Logan blinked.

“You did not seriously just say that,” he said, concealing his grin with a convenient facepalm.

Patton snickered, and caution gradually evolved into the laid-back, comfortable manner Logan had been growing accustomed to. The former fired off several more puns (to Logan’s infinite despair) and fell into a fit of laughter before another customer finally entered the store.

When Patton got up to help them, Logan felt as though the café had been once again filled with the atmosphere of joy and happiness that always seemed to permeate the place—like the shop was filled with a room full of people, even though it had just been the two of them. The lights seemed to glow brighter on that overcast afternoon (he had hardly noticed the grey clouds roll over the sky) and the room felt warmer, like it did on days when Patton had just taken fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and scones out of the oven.

All it took was one person.

_Patton really is the heart of this place, isn’t he?_

Logan soon became conscious of the fact that he was still grinning and bit his lower lip in an attempt to push it away.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

It was only after the customer had left (longer than Logan might’ve liked, given that they were _very_ chatty and Patton once again got caught up in the conversation) that the baker returned, plopping himself back into the chair—by which time Logan had formulated a new idea.

“Patton, what if we were to visit Roman together after you close up tonight? It might be beneficial for us to check up on him and see if he had just forgotten the meeting,” Logan said.

“Oh! That seems like a great idea. I can close up right away!” Patton said, practically jumping from his chair.

“What? Patton, the hours of the store—”

“—It’ll be fine, people will understand—”

“—but the customers—”

“—There’s been no one here anyways—”

“I don’t want to be the cause of a disruption of your work—your career!”

“Logan, love, I’m self-employed. I can make my own hours if I need to. Besides, being there for my friends is my priority right now!”

Logan’s brain faltered at the simple endearment, and he was unable to form a response in time to stop Patton from his practiced dance across the counter.

It took less than ten minutes to close up, even on his own—Logan was incapacitated as he quietly struggled to recover from the endearment—and Patton was quick to whisk the entomologist out of the shop, promising they’d come back later to pick up his books despite the man’s attempts to stall for time.

They raced down the street just as the sun—which had briefly reemerged from behind the soft clouds—was beginning to dip over the hill, casting a shadow over the village that slid steadily, patiently towards the pair. By the time they had reached the bridge to the inn (slowing down their pace considerably at Logan’s insistence), the shadows lapped at their heels, seeming to hesitate at the edge of the growth of trees that blocked the view of the inn from the road.

The whole scene was causing worry to steep in Logan’s chest. He took a deep breath and crossed the bridge with renewed determination, Patton following close behind.

The clearing was empty of movement; the grasses Logan had searched just a few weeks ago were dry and still now. The trees surrounding the inn seemed to block out some of the wind, causing an eerie stillness to settle over the place.

Patton shivered. “I don’t like this.”

“No need to fear, Patton,” Logan said, his voice low, “The inn has been like this on all the past occasions that I have been here.”

“I meant the spiders,” Patton murmured, pointing to the webs that hung delicately from the porch’s awning in front of them. Logan let out a half laugh, releasing some of the worry that had been knotting in his chest.

“Well, so long as we do not disturb them, I believe they will let us pass without incident,” he assured him, making a point to duck his head underneath the awning to put extra distance between himself and the webs. He knocked on the heavy door as Patton moved up to join him.

A beat of silence. Two.

The door creaked open, just a sliver of the way. Patton jumped in surprise, grabbing Logan’s arm. Logan froze for a second (he couldn’t decide whether it was the door opening or the the sudden contact that caused it, and he resolved to not look into that particular question). No one poked their head through the doorway or opened it further.

“What should we do?” Patton whispered, his voice just shy of Logan’s ear. Logan shivered.

“We are looking for our friend, are we not? I believe we should go in.” The entomologist’svoice quavered. 

“But what if…we see those _things_?”

“They’re hard to miss, Patton. Besides the one that seems to have disappeared…” Patton’s grip tightened on Logan’s wrist. “We came all this way, anyways.”

The café owner gulped. “Okay.”

Logan hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and pushed the door. The heavy wood protested against him for a second before relinquishing, casting a sliver of orange twilight glow onto the entryway. The foyer was empty; besides the newly sanded floorboards beneath their feet and the reception desk that had clearly been dusted and cleaned out, there were no signs of Roman’s presence. Looking over to the left, Logan found the fireplace and window that marked the corner of the room where Roman had been staying. He stepped that way, tugging Patton with him (the man’s hand was still firmly wrapped around his wrist, but Logan was trying not to think about that). The fireplace barely radiated any warmth, but the coals in it were relatively new from what Logan could tell—Roman had used it as recently as last night. Good. His sleeping bag had been made and his supplies were still strewn (albeit orderly) around the room.

“He must still be here. In town, I mean. Otherwise he would have packed his things.”

“Mhm,” Patton said, his voice a bit distracted.

“And it looks as though he was cooking last night, which confirms what I heard earlier. Let me just check over here…”

“Logan.”

“Yes! Roman was here this morning. His shaving kit is still open, though, he might have been in a rush—”

“ _Logan_ ,” Patton said, with more force this time. Logan looked up and back towards Patton.

“What is it?” Logan searched Patton’s eyes, that looked like they were almost ready to cry. “Patton, what’s wrong?”

“Up there,” he said softly. Logan followed the angle of his pointed finger and the breath caught in his throat.

He could clearly see the shadowy black mass that had accumulated in the corner of the ceiling over the reception desk. Despite its stillness it seemed to be thrumming with unstable energy.

“This,” he began to back away towards the reception desk with his partner in tow, “This is not good.”

——

Virgil had gone from opaque to almost invisible over the last ten minutes. Roman wasn’t sure if his apparition company was aware of this development, but he had been sneaking glances at the ghost during intervals of silence as he cleaned one of the second story rooms. Their chatting from that morning had devolved into companionable silence, and Roman had gone to work preparing the rooms upstairs, not completely sure if the ghost he held an uneasy truce with would follow. But now his figure was flitting through beams of light, floating around the same room as Roman like a leaf swept up in the fall breeze—aimless and drifting, never quite determined to settle on the ground below. It was as though he was pacing, but what the object of his thoughts were Roman had no idea. He noticed that Virgil would occasionally try to pick up some of the cleaning tools strewn on the bed, with varying degrees of success. The thought of Virgil’s curiosity causing him to stay around for as long as he had put a soft smile on Roman’s face.

It was curious, Virgil’s invisibility—did it require conscious attention for the ghost to be visible, or to manage how well he could be seen? He wanted to ask, but Virgil seemed to be touchy around…personal questions. Roman wasn’t sure if that would be pushing a boundary. Instead he stole another glance in Virgil’s general direction; sure enough, the ghost was nearly invisible, outlined only by warping in the light. It was like looking through a lens of curved glass. 

Roman could barely make out Virgil’s figure, the shape of his spindly arms and the bell-shaped sleeves of the dress floating forward as his narrow fingers curled around the edge of a feather duster. He lifted it, pulling against a gravity that seemed stronger for him and him alone. He turned it in his fingers, examining the iridescent feathers for only a moment before it seemed to slip through his grasp. Roman watched the outline of his shoulders slump almost imperceptibly before the apparition turned and floated towards the bookshelf further away.

“You’re staring,” Virgil murmured suddenly, causing heat to flood into Roman’s cheeks. He turned away quickly, pretending to search for some tool or other.

“Sorry.” Roman cleared his throat. “I was just…” he trailed off, not even sure what sort of excuse he could produce. When he stole another glance at Virgil, he had once again become visible, his form more solid and grey. Some thought hammered at the back of his mind, something he thought was urgent that he needed to say, but couldn’t seem to remember what it was.

“Trying to see how much I could lift?” Virgil quipped, on the borderline between closing himself off and opening up. Roman shook his head.

“No, I was—I was just thinking about why we were able to…y’know,” he held up his own hand. “Why I was able to feel your hand?”

Virgil’s shoulders seemed to relax a bit at that— _when had they gone stiff?_ —and the apparition sighed. “I wish I knew.” Roman bit his lip, about to respond, but Virgil continued. “I can’t feel anything else that I hold. Or, at least, it ‘feels’ far away, like I’m wearing five layers of thick gloves and trying to hold something as light as a feather. I can tell there’s some sort of border between me and it, and it’ll fall out of my hands unless I’m concentrating hard on keeping it there. But when you touched my arm, it felt like you had just reached _through_ whatever division there is between life and…whatever I am.” He shivered. “It was _weird_.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t exactly normal on my side of things either,” Roman said defensively.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean _that_. It’s just…it took me by surprise, is all.” Virgil shrugged, and for just a moment Roman saw his deep brown eyes flicker towards him, as if waiting to see how he might react.

Then, the eyes gradually drifted downward, resting on Roman’s hand for a brief second before turning away.

Roman knew Virgil wanted to try it again. And when he looked inside himself, so did he. The fierce, untamed curiosity within him was practically pulling him to a stand, begging him to ask. He crossed the small room until all that divided the two was a single arm’s length of space. Slowly he held out his hand towards the ghost.

“Let’s try it again.”

——

Roman’s eyes were glistening. Virgil could practically _feel_ the intensity of his gaze, the sincerity, the wild and perhaps naïve bravery that he emitted. It was bewitching. In a moment the ghost was ensnared by the proposal. By feeling _wanted,_ feeling alive. Virgil’s fingers twitched, ready to take Roman’s hand without a second thought. He could have followed the man anywhere, no questions asked. Maybe his fearlessness would even bring him back to whatever plane of existence Roman was living on. Virgil was ready for the touch, expecting it this time, wasn’t he?

_No._ A pair of golden eyes, shimmering with the same false promises, flashed across his vision for a fraction of a second and he clenched his fist.

_No, don’t let him fool you._

_Not again._

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil said, feeling himself float backwards. His voice sounded hollow, detached, to him. As if someone else was speaking it.

Roman faltered. “But…don’t you want to know why this is happening? And what’s going on?” Virgil opened his mouth and closed it again. Opaque purple strands hair fell over his eyes.

“It’s too dangerous, Roman. You hurt yourself last time.”

“I’ll pull away if I do. But we’ll never learn anything if we’re too afraid to try, Virgil.”

The gentle way his name rolled of Roman’s tongue sent a flutter through his chest that was not entirely unwelcome. He glanced between Roman’s hand and his eyes, still bold and sincere. The offer dangled tantalizingly in the air before him.

And oh, how he longed to be reckless again.

This time, he reached forward and placed his fingers gently over Roman’s open palm. Instantly he felt the warmth of his palm beneath his own, a spark of energy coursing through his body. He gasped as the warmth started creeping up his forearm again, as his skin turned from opaque to solid. It felt as though his body was waking up again from a deep sleep. It was real. Almost as real as a heartbeat. As real as Roman. He needed to do something—anything—to keep up the adrenaline rush he was feeling from leaving his body. To keep the tingling sensation of life in his arm a reality. He looked up at Roman, almost desperately, as the color reached his elbow. Roman, who was grinning back.

“No pain this time,” he said breathlessly. Clearly he was feeling the same adrenaline high as Virgil was.

“It’s working. We just needed…an adrenaline rush,” Virgil whispered, though he too couldn’t help from grinning. He met Roman’s gaze again.

Roman, who was looking right back at him with intent. With a question forming in his eyes.

A question that Virgil knew he could answer.

_An adrenaline rush, right?_

Without thinking, his lips parted. Roman inched forward, beginning to close the gap between them.

Slowly, impossibly slow…Virgil waited with bated breath in anticipation for their lips to meet.

_ Four. _

_ T _ _ hree.  _

_ Two. _

A sudden flicker of Roman’s wrist caught his attention. A familiar, swirling pattern glowing over his forearm. Virgil jerked back suddenly, out of Roman’s hand and out of reach, his sense and logic flooding back to him at once. The momentary rush of adrenaline drained away. 

_Too far. Way, way too far._

Roman looked confused, hurt even. Virgil swallowed.

“Your arm. You were in pain, you—you were lying to me,” Virgil choked out, avoiding the topic of what they had almost done altogether. Roman frowned. In the distance there was a thumping sound, but it went unnoticed.

“What? No, I didn’t feel anything. Truly,” he said. As the warmth drained from Virgil’s arm, he shook his head.

“But those patterns…the swirling symbols. They’re—” Virgil tried to shake the memory of his own experience away. “They’re a sign that you’re becoming…like me.”

Roman blinked, his confusion evident. “I swear to you, I didn’t feel anything.”

Virgil sighed. “This…this wasn’t a good idea. We—I put you in danger. We need to be more careful.” _Holy shit, I almost kissed Roman._

“But—” Roman started, but cut himself off. Virgil turned towards the door as well.

The echo of voices coming from downstairs had caught both of their attentions. Their argument (partially) forgotten, Roman turned towards the door of the room, tiptoeing down the hallway to investigate. Virgil willed himself to turn transparent, uncomfortable about the idea of people seeing him…well, the way that he was.

Roman reached the banister just in time to hear the unexpected visitor say “This is not good.” Virgil frowned. It was the man in glasses, a person he had seen here once before. _What was his name? L…Lo-something? Lo…_

“Logan?” Roman called, looking down from the second floor banister with some confusion. “Patton? What are you doing here?”

“Roman!” Patton called, relief splitting in to a grin. His hand fell from where it had been gripping his companion’s wrist. “We were so worried!”

“Worried?” Roman echoed, turning from the foyer and making his way down the stairs.

“We thought you were in trouble, since you didn’t come to the meeting today,” Logan said, his gaze still plastered on something on the ceiling, as though he was afraid it would go away. Roman’s stomach churned, but he had no idea why. Maybe he’d forgotten to eat?

“Oh, was that today? I’m sorry about that. No, I’ve been fine, I was just with—” Roman glanced behind him to find the apparition gone. Or…not visible, at least. There was a faint wisp of cold air that still brushed across his arms. “Uh, I was just cleaning upstairs.” Logan raised a brow, reluctantly leaving whatever he had been staring at to step a few more feet forward. Patton shivered as a chilly stream of air brushed over him.

“I’m glad to know you were fine, then. But unfortunately we have some bad news,” Logan said, his voice lowering. Roman furrowed his brows in concern.

“What? Did something happen?” Logan took a glance behind him and leaned forward to whisper into Roman’s ear. A strange and sudden chill ran over him as he did so.

“The entity—the one you’ve been looking for—is right above the reception desk. On the ceiling.” The sudden chill disappeared. Roman’s heart was hammering in his chest as Logan backed away again. He stepped forward, away from the staircase and into the foyer, as though he was sleepwalking. And when he turned his head upwards—

Roman’s breath hitched in his throat. _The attack. Last night. The threats. The pain—_ a hand flew to his left shoulder. The memories came flooding back as he stared at the shadowy mass above him.

_I have to tell Virgil. I have to tell Virgil. Where is he?_

His gaze snapped from the black mass and he began searching wildly around the room for signs of the apparition. The cold draft, the only sign of Virgil’s presence, was absent from where he stood.

“This is bad. This is very, very bad…” he muttered, unable to articulate anything else.

“Look, Ro…” Patton stepped forward, putting a hand on Roman’s shoulder to stop him from pacing. “It might be a good idea for you to stay somewhere else for a while. It’s dangerous here.”

“What? No! I can’t leave—” he stopped himself. “I…I have so much work to do.”

“I must agree with Patton, Roman,” Logan moved to his companion’s side, keeping a careful eye on the ceiling. “You’re not safe here on your own.”

“I’m not on my own!” he cried. Logan blinked, connecting the dots a second before Patton, who dropped his arm from Roman’s shoulder.

“With all due respect to… _him_ , is he enough to protect you from _that_ thing? Especially at night, when your guard is down?”

_TELL THEM_.

“Yes. I think he is. And besides, I can take care of myself.”

The cold draft returned.

“Okay, then…but if you ever change your mind, my door is _always_ open. Don’t you forget that,” Patton reluctantly acquiesced.

“I won’t. Thank you, Patton. And, uh, sorry about missing the meeting today. I got distracted with work.”

“It’s fine, Ro! We’re just glad nothing bad happened to you.” Patton grinned, pulling Roman into a strangling hug.

“He was so worried he closed the shop early to come and visit,” Logan said with a sly smile.

“Really?” Roman laughed. “Well, that’s sweet of you, but you didn’t have to—”

“You’re my _friend_ , Ro. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Patton shivered again. “Oh, uh, did you ever figure out the insulation thing? It’s kinda chilly in here.”

“Nope, no luck yet. Haven’t even gotten an inspector to come inside yet.” Logan raised a brow.

The last stretches of golden sunlight filtered in through the big front window, casting the shimmering light across the floorboards. As even that light began to disappear into the hills, the din of laughter in the front room continued. The entity hadn’t been forgotten, no, but Logan and Patton had silently resolved to stay with Roman as long as their company was welcome—as much as it unsettled them, they knew leaving Roman alone with it for a long time would not be a good idea.

But hadn’t he already been alone with it quite some time, without him knowing?

Eventually the light faded from the windows, replaced by the autumn night sky. Roman’s porch lamp flickered on, alerting the group to this change. The breeze was beginning to gather, picking up leaves that danced in the air like dancers performing an eerie, silent ritual.

Logan checked his watch. 7:33. Sunset came earlier and earlier this time of year—but they had been there nearly three hours now. It would be suspicious to Roman soon, if the realization had not already occurred to him.

He and Patton soon excused themselves and departed from the house. Despite the cool autumn breeze blowing against them, it was strangely warmer outside than it had been in the house. A realization struck Logan.

“Patton,” He said as his companion drew a gray cardigan over his shoulders, “Do you remember the story Jodi Thompson tells at the café every once and a while, about her encounter with the ghost?”

“Yes, how she heard some sort of eerie song and the room got super cold and she bolted?”

“Exactly.”

“You didn’t start hearing voices, did you, Logan?” Patton joked, but his nervous laughter was absorbed in the darkness.

“No. But I think there might have been more to the cold of that inn than simply a draft,” he murmured. As they passed over the small bridge and back onto the main road, Logan thought he saw the glint of something gold in the woods, but when he turned his head to look, it was gone.

“Oh? _OH_ ,” Patton whispered. “You think he was there?”

“I have a strong suspicion, yes. And given what Roman said about how he reacts to visitors, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to me if he was merely trying to gage the personalities ofthe newcomers before he reveals himself.”

“An interesting deduction, _Watson_ ,” Patton drawled.

“Hey! If anyone is Watson, it’s you!” Logan cried with joking indignation.

They continued on, their happy banter gradually replacing the unease which they had feltuntil it was forgotten completely.

——

“Roman. You okay?” Virgil asked softly. He had reappeared shortly after Patton and Logan had left, his brows furrowed in concern. Roman blinked, turning away from the entity on the ceiling. He didn’t even realize he’d been staring at it again.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a little surprised, is all. I wasn’t expecting it to be that close to where I was sleeping.”

He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t speak. The voice coming out of his mouth was hardly his own. Why couldn’t he tell Virgil what had happened to him last night?

Again he opened his mouth to articulate what he had seen, but the experience had faded away like a memory from his childhood, leaving only a slight sting in his shoulder, which he rubbed absently with his thumb.

He closed his mouth, not sure what words had just been sitting on the edge of his tongue.

If he _had_ been meaning to say something, Virgil didn’t notice. The ghost suggested sleeping in one of the upstairs rooms instead of the foyer, and Roman agreed, moving his few belongings up in a single trip.

As he settled in that night he wondered why his stomach still seemed to be churning with worry. The problem had been solved, hadn’t it?

What was there to worry about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy halloween! 
> 
> If you enjoyed reading this, consider following me @cryptic-stories on tumblr, where you can ask questions about what I am writing or potential future projects!


	9. Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan makes a discovery, and Roman can't talk about his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mild cursing, nightmares, gore (skip "in front of him..." to "Nothing happened.").

Virgil’s head was buzzing with information as he paced across his room, finally alone after the hours spent in the company of Roman’s friends. He wrung his hands for a long time, trying to distract himself from the thoughts he was thinking.

_Of the dark entity—of_ him _._

_Of Roman’s friends._

_Of the almost kiss._

What had he been thinking? Why did he even think about agreeing to that? It wasn’t right. He was _dead_. No matter how things ended up—if Roman really did love him, if it wasn’t just the reckless thoughts of an adrenaline rush—Roman would be miserable. _He_ would be miserable.

They couldn’t touch without endangering one another. And besides, the whole town—probably the whole world—would think Roman was crazy. They’d take him away and put him in an asylum, maybe even back to…

_Why the hell did he have to try that shit? He saw what happened the first time._

The memory of the spiraling patterns crawling up Roman’s wrist caused a new wave of nausea to rush over him. They were bright white and glowing…but undoubtedly the same.

_For a second, Virgil looked up at his reflection in the glass window. The person staring back at him had his brows knotted in worry, holding his hands in front of him in surprise. There were swirling tendrils of black poking out from the collar of his dress and the sleeve of his left hand._

_His eyes were watering. He was scared. No—he was terrified._

“NO!” Virgil shouted, the panic rising in his throat as he tore his gaze from the glass pane. His chest felt tight—but he couldn’t really feel anything now, could he?

No. He was alone.

The fear and panic that gripped him was something he had to bear alone.

No one else should have to go through that. And if he caused it—he would never forgive himself.

Being a ghost for all eternity gave him a long time to shoulder that guilt.

_Knock knock._

Virgil drew in a breath. Roman had heard him, undoubtedly.

_Great. Can’t wait for this conversation._ He sighed and floated toward the door, not bothering to open it and simply floating through. Roman was right there, his worried eyes meeting his.

Virgil felt a flutter in his chest, and suddenly he wished he could just float back into his room and hide for a couple of years until Roman inevitably forgot him.

_That actually kind of sounded like a good idea_ —

“Could you please come down?” Roman asked, tearing Virgil away from his futile escape plans. He realized that he was currently floating about two feet in the air, and he quickly floated downward to look Roman in the eyes. His skirt billowed out, nearly brushing against Roman’s leg.

“What is it?” Virgil attempted to ask nonchalantly, but his voice came out tight and awkward. He sighed internally.

“I, uh, I heard you screaming?” Roman said, his brows knitted in confusion. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Virgil lied, not liking the limited amount of distance between himself and Roman.

An awkward silence descended, Virgil electing to stare anywhere but Roman’s eyes.

“Well, uh…” Roman cleared his throat. “Since we’re here,” He started. Virgil tensed up.

_This can’t be good_.

“About what happened earlier…”

Virgil panicked. “With your friends? It’s fine. It’s not like they saw me anyways—”

“That’s not what I meant. Before that.” Virgil was running out of ideas. He was cornered in front of his own door by an annoyingly attractive (and annoyingly _brave_ , damn it) innkeeper who seemed like he literally couldn’t stop asking questions.

“You should get some sleep,” Virgil supplied, unhelpfully. He _really_ did not want to do this.

“Virgil, I know you kn—”

“You should _really_ get some sleep,” Virgil repeated with more strength this time, his hand reaching for the doorknob that he couldn’t grab. He saw Roman blink.

“O-okay, then…” Roman conceded after a long pause. “I’ll just be down the hall…if you ever want to t—”

“Goodnight, Roman,” Virgil murmured quickly, slipping back through his door before he could regret brushing the confused man off. He sighed with relief when he heard Roman’s door shut a few seconds later.

_One more day to spare my sanity._

——

Roman sighed, turning his back on Virgil’s door.

He knew there was plenty of information that Virgil didn’t want to tell him about his past, and probably for a valid reason, but it left Roman stuck in a rut. He couldn’t help, and he’d definitely promised not to research into Virgil’s personal life (not that there was much more to be found, anyways, given that the only record of his life so far was a half-burned death certificate). He couldn’t get those dark entities out of his house without Virgil’s help. He didn’t even know what the dark entities _were_. It has been weeks, and little progress had been made on any front.

Not to mention, there were a couple of other problems he was developing.

There was a terribly annoying clicking noise that kept sounding in his ear, as if someone were walking right next to him and trying to pester him to death. But whenever he looked over his left shoulder—it had happened three times already since the noise started earlier that evening—there was nothing there. It was barely audible, but persistent, which was starting to become a nuisance.

He pulled the door to his room open, barely noticing the creak of the old wood on its hinges as it opened. The room he was staying in was next to Virgil’s. It was a quaint little room, like all the others, if a bit sparsely furnished—a dresser on one side with a mirror (much in need of cleaning) mounted on top and a chair in front, and a bed with four wooden posts at each corner. Each of the rooms had had a thin embroidered cloth running along the length of the dresser, presumably to protect the wood and provide a place to set vases, decor, and more. There was a window directly across the door, circular and wide open. When it had been completely cleaned, Roman was sure it would provide a nice view of the forest and courtyard.

As he crossed the room to his bed, he sighed in frustration.

His mind drifted to the spectre living just next door to him. So close, yet too far away. He wanted to talk about it—about the almost-kiss, about the reason why being close to a ghost made him feel so alive…he wanted to ask if it was even okay to feel the way he felt.

He wanted Virgil.

He wanted to run his hand through the faded purple hair and feel the fabric of Virgil's lilac dress. He wanted his fingertips to bring the ghost back to life. That was what had been happening, right?

With a groan of frustration, he fell backwards onto the bed and buried his face in the extra pillow.

_You’re being ridiculous,_ he thought to himself. _This is just a stupid fantasy. Get over yourself._

_He could never want you like that._

——

When Logan woke up the following morning, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep—even if it was five thirty a.m., long before most of the rest of the town (and before his host, Dr. Picani) would awaken. He stepped out of his bed mechanically and put on his glasses. With a shiver in the chilly air, he made his way to the tiny open closet in the corner of his room. It was still dark there; the sun wouldn’t rise for at least another hour at this time of year.

Logan put on a white button-up shirt and, after a second glance at the closet, pulled a dark blue sweater over that. He adjusted the collar in the circular mirror suspended over the nightstand of his bed. He stepped towards the door, but paused. After a moment’s consideration, he walked back to the square window directly over his bed. He drew back the ivory-colored linen curtains with his forefingers and stared out. Even in the darkness he could see the oppressive fog that wrapped itself around the entire town.

He realized suddenly that he wasn’t scared of it here. Here, it was just fog in the dark and early morning. But at the inn, he had felt uncharacteristically distressed. Nervous, even, if he was willing to admit it.

There was nothing hiding in this fog, he supposed. But there was something about the fog around the inn. Something was in there, seeing through it all. Seeing _him._

He knew he could rely on his intuition to be correct, but for once, he wished he was wrong.

Logan shook himself out of his thoughts, dropping the curtain from his hand. He travelled back to the nightstand and struck a match against the matchbox. In a few seconds, he had lit a nightstand candle, bathing the room in a shallow orange glow. He lifted the candlestick and strode to the corner of the room by the door where his book-bag lay. In the faint light he rifled through layers of paper until he reached a thick stack of files bound together by a single strained binder clip. He tugged it out, setting the candlestick on the floor beside him. Not for the first time, he leafed through the papers. Records of births and deaths, family addresses, photocopies of books on the Vietnam war, newspaper clippings, printouts of paranormal theories—all recordings of what he had learned (or tried to learn) about Virgil and the haunting of Roman’s inn. He had scoured through various sources to find any new information he could, to no avail.

Balancing this independent research was made even more tricky do to the entomology research paper he was in the middle of writing. Luckily he had received a short period of free time (a few weeks, in fact) as a result of the changing weather. He couldn’t write about isolated species changes and evolution if the living populations of grasshoppers he studied were gone due to the cold weather. He would have to wait until spring to collect more data—in the mean time, he would be relying on previous published research to supplement his own writing. But those records would take time to receive from the nearest library. So, now was his only time to get ahead on the issue of the paranormal before he had to return to the research at hand.

This extra glance over his notes was revealing nothing, however. Logan had read over many of the articles in depth already, without noticing anything new or helpful. Even his notes from the meetings with Patton and Roman weren’t sparking any inspiration—

_Wait._ Logan’s eyes caught on one of the newspaper clippings. More specifically, the picture that the article was framed around. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and examined it closer.

The article’s title read: “ _Massive U.S. Anti-War Protests—Rallies, Marches held by Local Students_ ”. Directly underneath was a grainy black-and-white image of several people—presumably college students, given the title of the article—carrying signs and marching across a wide open street. But it wasn’t the image itself that caught Logan’s attention: it was one of the protestors in the picture. For some reason, the man in the picture struck Logan as familiar. He furrowed his brow, flipping back a couple pages in his notes, where he had photocopied Roman’s drawing of Virgil. He stared at it for a second and flipped back to the newspaper article, his eyes growing wider.

“No…” he whispered to himself. “There’s no way. It’s impossible.”

He stared for a second more before standing up with a start, nearly knocking over the candlestick. He pulled together his clipped up notes and hastily shoved them back in his book-bag, hoisting it up and over his shoulder. He blew out the candlestick and returned it to the nightstand before rushing out the door (as quietly as he could so as not to wake his host). He closed and locked the front door behind him before turning around and rushing towards the town center.

The fog was still thick around him. The beginnings of sunrise did nothing to scare it off. As Logan sped down the old cobblestone roads, he smelled the lingering scent of rain and damp that made him shiver. Around him, red and orange leaves were scattered about by a calm autumn breeze. He couldn’t see too far in front of him, so he kept his head down, tracing the cobblestone path so he wouldn’t get lost in the oppressive mist. One hand was braced over his book-bag so it didn’t bounce around and drop his precious notes, and the other was focused on balancing: running downhill on wet cobblestone was a risk Logan needed to take at the moment.

Finally he reached the town center, nearly out of breath but too excited to notice it. The stones turned to pavement beneath his feet as he ran towards the familiar coffeeshop. It wouldn’t be open to customers yet, as Logan had discovered during his first weeks there, but Patton was still there, preparing to open up for the day. He was one of the only other people who would venture out into the fog before the sun rose and chased it away.

Logan finally reached the door and stopped for breath. He knocked on the wooden door, squinting through the frosted glass panel to try to catch a glimpse of movement there. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for a very confused Patton to answer the door.

“Oh, Logan! What brings you here this earl—Hey, are you okay?” He asked, his brows furrowed in concern at the academic, who was catching his breath with his hands on his knees. Logan righted himself suddenly, glancing up and meeting Patton’s eyes.

“I, uh,” Logan stuttered, his mind going blank at the sudden and direct eye contact. He flushed, glancing away to the store window instead. “I’m sorry for the early intrusion. I—I was looking over my notes—the ones about Virgil—and I found something I thought you might like to see. I think it might be important.”

“Oh! Come on in, Logan. It’s freezing outside. Come on, I’ll make you some tea,” Patton said, pulling Logan in by the arm. Logan blinked in surprise but let himself be guided to the table in the back corner of the cafe—his usual one, Logan noted—by the enthusiastic man beside him. The front door swung shut and Logan let the warmth of the cafe envelop him as Patton brought over twin cups of tea in plain white mugs.

“Right, then, so what is it that you found?” Patton asked. Logan blinked again, disoriented by the attention he was receiving. He cleared his throat and rifled through his bag (which was still strung over his shoulder, he noticed with a flush of embarrassment. He was far too flustered from the unexpected early-morning run and the sudden epiphany). Soon he found the notes he had stashed away, and he dropped the stack onto the table. After he pulled the book-bag off his shoulder, he flipped through the notes again, pulling out the newspaper clipping and the sketch of Virgil that Roman had made.

“Look,” he said breathlessly. “Here, and here.” He pointed to the man in the center of the newspaper image and back to the sketch of Virgil’s face.

“Woah,” Patton whispered. “They do look similar. But the odds of them being the same person are…”

“Infinitesimal,” Logan finished. A beat of silence descended as they studied the pictures.

“We need to show Roman this,” Patton said finally. He took a sip from his cup of tea and stood up, crossing back to the bar to finish his preparations for work. “He’ll know whether or not it’s actually Virgil. It could just be a coincidence.”

Logan made a noise of agreement, his eyes glued to the pictures in front of him. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Not like this,” he murmured.

——

Roman awoke in a cold sweat from a nightmare he didn’t remember. He sat up, disoriented, and brushed a lock of tangled hair back from his face. The room was still dark, and freezing cold.

_It must be early yet._

Though he couldn’t remember his dream, the idea of falling back asleep—even this early in the morning—sent a wave of dread through his body. He shook his head and pulled back the sleeping bag he had laid over the bare mattress. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself off, moving to the dresser to rearrange his hair with a comb.

His hand had only brushed the comb with his finger when he cried out suddenly in surprise. The handle of the comb felt hot enough to scorch his fingers. He stepped back, examining his finger where he had touched the comb, but he saw nothing.

“What the hell…” he murmured, looking back at the comb, which sat there as if nothing had happened. After a second of hesitation, he reached out for the comb again.

It felt cool to the touch—like he had imagined the pain the first time. He frowned, but proceeded to comb his hair like normal.

He left the room a few minutes later, paper and pen in hand. He stared down at it, crossing off items on a list of things he needed to get done for the inn. He had only taken a few steps, however, before he stopped himself.

Something moved by his foot.

He moved the notebook to his side. Nothing there.

Nothing he could see.

The smell of smoke suddenly filled his lungs and he jerked his head up again, feeling his pulse quicken involuntarily.

The hallway was dark—no, pitch black. The window curtains should have been open. There should have been early morning light streaming through. But now, there were only shadows. Shadows on every wall and surface. Roman could only see a few feet in front of him. He reached his hand out for the wall, but there was nothing there he could feel. His hand dropped to his side. The notebook and pen fell idly onto the ground.

His skin felt like it was burning and freezing at the same time. In the back of his mind, the same message played on loop, but he couldn’t act on it: _Call for help. Something is wrong. Call for help._

He stared unblinkingly down the hallway—what he could see of it, anyway. If he looked away he would miss it. If he looked away he would miss whatever was watching him. Something was watching him. He was not alone.

No, in fact, he could feel it all around him. It was there.

It was _toying_ with him.

A voice called his name in the distance. He didn’t move.

A flicker.

In front of him, a figure stepped out of the black. A person. Their head was down, they were staring at the floor. But Roman could feel them grinning.

Their hair was jet black and tousled, like the feathers of a raven. A streak of white hair protruded from the front. They were clad in black and green clothing, atrociously matched and torn almost everywhere from what Roman could see.

The figure laughed, but the sound was distorted. Roman stiffened in a sudden recognition of the voice.

“Oh, Roman,” they said through heaving laughs. “You didn’t think you could get away so easily?”

Before Roman could divine the meaning from that phrase, the figure lifted their head suddenly. Roman gasped.

Their face was scarred and distorted, covered in dirt or ash and trickles of blood. They were missing an eye.

One thing was clear from that face: The owner couldn’t possibly be alive and walking.

Yet here they were.

The figure lurched forward and Roman cried out, closing his eyes and shielding his face.

Nothing happened.

He waited a second.

Two. Three.

“ _Roman!_ ”

That voice was familiar, too. But a different familiar. Nicer.

Roman inhaled. The smell of smoke was gone. He grinned at the scent of cologne pressed in old book pages. Faraway.

Safe.

He didn’t dare open his eyes, but reached out blindly to draw the source of that comfort nearer. His fingers curled around something cold and fine like fabric left out in the snow, and he pulled it closer.

“Roman I swear to God _, let go of me!_ ”

Roman’s eyes snapped open. Virgil was staring at him, eyes wide. The sleeve of his dress was glowing purple beneath his fingers. Roman whisked his hand away in a second, stumbling backwards in surprise. Virgil looked on the brink of mortification.

“What’s gotten into you?” the ghost said, his voice softer now.

Roman could only stare back, an overwhelming mixture of relief and confusion flooding through him. His eyes flicked around: he was still in the right wing of the upstairs corridor. Early morning light was filtering gently through the windows. The corridors were bright and open.

As they had always been.

_It was just a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare._

He looked down at his hands. They were clammy with sweat. With a shiver, he realized he was practically drenched in it.

He was freezing cold. He drew his arms across his chest.

“Roman. Hey. Look at me,” Virgil said, bringing Roman’s attentions back to the present. Roman met his eyes, the swirling deep irises prominent despite daylight’s effect on Virgil’s body. With a start, he realized that Virgil’s eyes might be visible when the rest of him wasn’t, given how bright they still were. He wasn’t sure whether he should be unsettled by that fact. “What happened to you?”

Roman swallowed. “Nightmare.” His voice was hoarse and he cringed. He saw Virgil searching his eyes for some meaning in that word, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything more. He was tired—so, so tired. He just wanted to fall back asleep.

No, he couldn’t do that. He was busy today.

“I—okay, are you…good?” The ghost frowned, floating closer. “Because you look like you just saw— no, wait, I can’t say that, I _am_ a ghost…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “But you’re…standing in the middle of the hallway. Which is sort of a weird place for a nightmare. And, to be frank, you look like you have a fever.”

Roman blinked. “I do?”

Virgil’s frown deepened. “Are you sure it was just a nightmare, Roman?”

“Yes,” he replied automatically. That wasn’t what he had wanted to say. The image of the man in the hallway, grinning despite the grotesque scars on his face, flashed through his mind. He shivered again.

Virgil reached a hand forward automatically, then stopped himself. He bit his lip.

“You know…you know you can tell me anything, right?” the ghost asked softly, his eyes glued to an invisible spot on the floor. 

Roman swallowed. He felt heat rising to his face despite the chill.

“You first.”

He instantly regretted saying it. Virgil stiffened. Roman saw his hand curl into a fist and his eyes travelled up to the apparition’s face. They were hard-set, but not angry.

No, they were resigned. Maybe even scared.

“The more you know, the more danger you’re in,” Virgil said stiffly. A pause. He examined Roman out of the corner of his eye. “I should go. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Roman met Virgil’s eyes. “I’m sure. Thank you, Virgil.”

Virgil’s mouth twitched, his expression indecipherable. “I’ll see you, then. Goodbye, Roman.” Roman shivered when he heard his name roll off Virgil’s tongue.

In a moment, the apparition was gone. Roman released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

Something in his chest seemed to disappear with Virgil. The cavity where it had been ached.

——

Logan kept checking the time on his phone. It had only been ten minutes since he sent the text to Roman inviting him to meet them at the cafe, but he was getting anxious. The innkeeper was usually quick to respond to texts—and leaving him alone in the inn hadn’t been Logan’s first choice.

Though…he supposed Roman wasn’t really alone.

But if Virgil wasn’t brave enough to show his face to Patton and him, how could he be brave enough to protect Roman from danger?

Logan checked his clock again. 10:45. _Eleven minutes passed_. He pursed his lips. Distractedly, he raked a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs backwards and out of his face.

The chime on the café door rung, and Logan’s head snapped up.

There he was.

Roman weaved his way through the café tables until he reached the back; he drew back one of the wooden chairs as he greeted Logan.

“I got your text. Sorry I didn’t respond—it sounded urgent, so I just left,” he said with a forced laugh. “What happened? You found something?”

Logan was confused by Roman’s…stiffness, but he brushed it aside for the time being. “Well, you see, I was looking through my notes about the inn, and its…residents,” Logan added, glancing around and lowering his voice to keep away from eavesdroppers. Roman leaned forward, and Logan nearly sneezed as he inhaled some of the dust that was clinging to Roman’s sweater. “I found this article about the college protests during the Vietnam war that I had kept for reference. But when I took a closer look at the picture, I, uh…noticed some similarities.”

“Similarities…?”

Logan nodded. He dug into his bag and pulled out the two sheets of paper: the article and the photocopied sketch of Virgil that Roman had made. He flipped them around and slid them towards Roman.

“The man in the foreground of the picture looks extremely similar to the sketch you made of Virgil. I was wondering if maybe you could…” Logan trailed off as he studied Roman’s reaction.

His eyes flickered back and forth from each of the images. After a moment, he blinked in disbelief, drawing the newspaper clipping closer to his face and squinting. His pupils dilated as they adjusted.

“Holy shit…” he murmured. “I think this could be him.”

“So did Patton and I.”

“What—uh, what could this mean?” Roman asked, his eyes flicking back to the photograph. “Besides that we might now have a real photo of him while he was alive.”

Logan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If this is him, then we know at least one protest he attended. We know what school he attended, when he was an active protester—roughly, of course—, and maybe we could even do some sort of face recognition search, for more images or records that could help us figure out what happened to him.”

Roman nodded. “Could I take a picture of this? I could show it to Virgil and—” He cut himself off suddenly, frowning.

“What is it?” Logan asked.

“Well, it’s just that…I don’t want a repeat of what happened last time I told Virgil that we had researched into his life. He’s been pretty adamant about keeping the past in the past. We need his permission to keep researching this—and I doubt he’d be willing to give it to us.”

Logan furrowed his brows. That could be a major roadblock. He sighed. “And I’m assuming there is no way around this?”

“None that I can think of.”

Roman sighed, his eyes drifting absently back to the photograph as a silence descended over the table once more. Logan pursed his lips in concentration.

“Roman, do you think I could try to talk to him? Convince him that he can trust me?”

“I—Honestly, I have no idea if it would work. But I’m willing to give it a try if you are,” Roman said. “And, well, if he’ll come out to see you.”

Logan smiled. “True. Tell you what—you convince him to see me, I’ll take care of the rest when I get there. Deal?”

“Of course,” Roman responded. “Here’s to hoping Virgil doesn’t kill me on sight.”

Logan huffed. “Indeed. That would be very unfortunate.” Roman smirked in response. He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and snapped a photo of the newspaper clipping, thanking Logan and exiting the store. Logan let out a sigh of relief.

Something was off about Roman’s behavior. Not suspicious, necessarily—but he seemed overexerted. More exhausted than he should be. He’d been doing labor-intensive work for months now, shouldn’t he be used to the burden?

And the dilated pupils…it had been an instant reaction that Logan hadn’t seen when Patton saw the two photos.

_What could that mean?_

_Unless…oh._

Oh.

——

Roman stepped into his room with a sigh. He glanced around for a moment with tired eyes, weary from another day’s worth of work. He grimaced at the layer of dust coating his fingertips and face. It seemed that no matter how much he dusted and cleaned, there was always more dirt to be found. He suspected that the previous owners hadn’t done as much cleaning work as they claimed.

20 years abandoned, nearly 100 years standing. A quite impressive set of numbers—and possibly, another contributing factor to the layers of dirt and grime he had to clean. He’d discovered some of the original stone foundation peeking out from beneath hastily installed wooden panels along the back wall of the inn. There had been many of those hasty fixes by the previous owners, and it only added to the seemingly endless list of tasks he had to accomplish. Not to mention, it would all be worthless if he couldn’t get an inspector out to advise him on plumbing and light fixtures. He was in deep.

He had yet to ask Virgil about the pictures that Logan and Patton had shown him earlier, but the thought of doing so made him nauseous. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened last time Virgil found out they were digging for information without his permission.

Roman dipped his hands into an ice-cold bowl of water on the dresser and splashed some of it on his face. He grabbed a towel and soap and scrubbed until his face was tinged red and as clean as Roman could manage. He washed his hands up to the elbows with the same procedure. After he was finished, he dropped the towel over the edge of the bowl and sighed. He and his reflection turned to confront each other. The dark circles under his eyes were more prominent when the dust was washed away. This raw reflection of himself caused Roman to grimace. His mind wandered idly.

After a second, however, he shook his head and turned away from the mirror peeling off the dust-layered sweater in exchange for sleep clothes. The biting cold of the air made him shiver and he turned quickly to grab a clean shirt, but a flash of something in the mirror caught his eye. He glanced back at the mirror to see what it was and froze.

Just beneath Roman’s left shoulder, spanning almost all the way to his elbow, swirling tendrils of inky black stretched across his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, ending on a happy note and wrapping up the chapter neatly??
> 
> absolutely not. (pls don't hurt me)
> 
> Stay safe this holiday season!!


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